


A Marriage Most Maddening

by yesterday4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Forced Marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-13 16:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: Draco Malfoy has a plan to avoid an arranged marriage: quickly marry a dying woman, end up a widower, and then reap the societal benefits.  If only his bride had acted accordingly.  If only his bride didn't have a plan of her own.I am estimating this to be about nine or ten chapters; six are already completed.





	1. The Longest Sentence

**Author's Note:**

> I originally published this in for G, for her generous donation to the LJ community help_haiti. I then promptly hit a wall, and this story became "abandoned". I have felt really guilty about this for quite some time, so have decided to resurrect it from the dead. I apologize for leaving you all hanging for so long. Thank you so kindly for all of your patience, especially you, G! I have six chapters of this completed, of an estimated nine or ten.
> 
> As of July 6, 2010, I am changing the name of "A Marriage Most Inconvenient" to "A Most Maddening Marriage", as I wasn't aware there was a story called "A Marriage Most Convenient" until I saw it recced on a list! Therefore to avoid confusion...
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : The premise of this story, most specifically the first two chapters, is based off of Patricia Coughlin's Merely Married, which is a fabulous book worth checking out if you fancy a romance!

_“‘I am’ is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that ‘I do’ is the longest sentence?”_

_  
_ \- Unknown

  
  
Draco Malfoy could feel the noose tightening around his neck. Resisting the urge to tug at his collar and squirm in his seat, he stared his father and his damned smug smile down, wishing he could hurl himself from the window and end it all quite dramatically. Simply put, if Lucius Malfoy had his way, Draco’s life was already over. Anything he did now was of no consequence; anything he had wanted before no longer mattered. If Draco was a lesser man, he might have wept from the frustration of it all.  
  
“Astoria Greengrass is an exceptional young woman,” Lucius was saying, patting an all too familiar manila folder with one finger in time with his words. “She has impeccable breeding and can trace her bloodline back nine centuries. She is polite, well-mannered, and not at all hard on the eyes.”  
  
All of this was true, although it didn’t matter at all to Draco. He’d had his fill of polite, well-mannered, beautiful women, and had meant to go on having many more. Glaring at the manila folder, he chewed at his lip to keep from speaking.  
  
“Her family has been kind enough to overlook certain… political issues within our own family,” said his father with a delicate sniff. This meant, of course, that Lucius Malfoy was prepared to settle a substantial financial sum on the polite, well-mannered, beautiful, and also money hungry woman with whom they’d met earlier. Draco barely managed to suppress an eye roll. “All seems to be in line for a spring wedding.”  
  
Not if Draco hurled himself from the window or changed his name and vanished from the country. Swallowing hard, he tried to envision himself tied down for the rest of his life and almost had a panic attack then and there.    
  
“Would it not be preferable,” he spit out from between clenched teeth, “to find a woman we do not have to buy?” This, Draco was certain, would take years.  
  
Lucius gave a long-suffering sigh. When he spoke next, it was to say, “And what good woman would be willing to tie herself to a Malfoy? These are ugly times for our family. Do not pretend to be ignorant of it.” Hints of impatience threaded themselves through his haughty tones. “Furthermore, what women our political allegiances haven’t frightened off have been promptly alienated by  _you_  and your ways.”  
  
These ways, oft mentioned and warned against, involved whore-mongering, drinking, gambling, and other less than reputable pursuits that made life worth living. In fact, Draco thought he excelled at all of them. Sadly, it was impossible to put this into words in a way that made for a good argument.    
  
Thusly, Draco said rather lamely, “I’m only twenty-four.”  
  
“And I was twenty when I married your mother.” Lucius rose, hiding the cursed manila folder inside of his robes in one elegant sweep. “Speaking of, she’ll be waiting at the Manor for news. We must depart at once.”  
  
Draco imagined his mother hearing that he’d finally succumbed to one lucky lady in the damned Bride Folder and barely suppressed a shudder. Looking around the room, he said, “I think I’d like to stay here for the weekend.”    
  
Lucius narrowed his eyes and took a look around their surroundings. The meeting with Astoria and her grasping father had occurred at a small inn in the middle of nowhere. The population of the village was dreadfully tiny, sadly lacking any stereotypical bar maidens with heaving bosoms. Draco hated it here.  
  
“You do not want to destroy this union,” warned Lucius, clearing having decided that there were no women around under fifty who were likely to get in the way of a spring wedding.  
  
Not that that had ever stopped Draco. Rising, he shook his father’s hand and actually managed to sound a little sincere when he said, “Nothing is further from my mind.”  
  
**  
  
“I have got to find a way out of this damned engagement.”  
  
Flopping back onto the couch, Draco blinked blurrily up at the ceiling. He had been angry—no, he had been livid—and then he’d been melancholy, utterly bereft. Now, he was just drunk and feeling very little outside of sorry for himself. Well, that and a strange warm floating feeling.    
  
“You could kill yourself,” offered a female someone very helpfully from his left.  
  
Turning his head made the room spin but Draco concentrated and set his gaze on Pansy Parkinson. She was seated quite primly, red nose the only betrayal of her own inebriation. He grinned widely at her. Had he ever told her how wonderful she was? He couldn’t quite recall.  
  
“I love you,” he informed her, quite passionately. This had nothing to do with the conversation they’d been having and he thought hard at remembering it. Yes, his own suicide. Mournfully, he added, “I can’t very well do that. I’m the only Malfoy hair.” What? He tried again, focusing on the movement of his tongue. “ _Heir_.”    
  
Laughter sounded out from the chair beside Pansy. Draco loved Blaise Zabini too and extended his grin to include his friend.  
  
“And you’re much too vain to ever harm yourself,” Zabini interjected, smiling. “Perhaps we could hire kidnappers and hold you hostage until Astoria’s found someone richer.”  
  
“There is no one richer,” sighed Draco, thinking how gloriously wealthy he really was. Then he realized he couldn’t feel his toes. When had that happened? Also, he had the most overwhelming urge of a sudden to take a piss. Merlin help him, his bladder was set to explode. Standing on a lurch, he was immediately distracted from his physical needs by the fact that he could now see down Pansy’s shirt. He grinned at the gentle curve of almost hidden cleavage and was about to turn his smarmy smile to her face when she slapped him on the arm.  
  
“That happened once years ago,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “and it will never happen again. Focus, you randy sod.”  
  
Focus, yes. The loo was too far away so he went to the balcony, tripping on his feet twice on the journey. The cool night air hit him hard and he shivered, setting about relieving himself quickly. As if from a distance, he noticed lights from the window below theirs—the innkeeper, whatever her name was, was obviously still up—and he zipped his trousers swiftly to avoid being caught pissing from a balcony like a common drunk, which was precisely what he was at the moment.    
  
“There is a party going on downstairs,” he told his friends, pulling up his zip as he re-entered the room.  
  
“Should we crash it?” Around the mouth of the wine bottle, Zabini’s grin was wicked.   
  
“No, we shall not,” ruined Pansy. “Draco summoned us here to help him out. Do try to be a good friend, Zabini.”  
  
“Oh yes, the problem at hand.” Zabini wrinkled his brow, apparently having as much difficultly processing thought as Draco. Wobbling, he made his way back to the couch, swiping the wine bottle on his way.  
  
“Do people still die in childbirth?” Zabini pondered, tapping his chin.  
  
“What? I don’t want Astoria  _dead_. I just don’t want her alive and married to me.” His friends! What barbarians! Seriously, Draco made an internal vow to love them forever anyway. So that they might know this, he added, “Faults are what make people beau—”  
  
“Did you hear that Elizabeth Andrews died last week?” interrupted Pansy.  
  
“Elizabeth who? Have I shagged her?”  
  
“No,” she said to Zabini. “She is too much of a witch even for you. And, by witch, I do in fact mean bitch. Anyway, you know she only just married Jonathon two months ago. Forced marriage. Now, she’s dead and he’s free. Poor thing and all that. Perhaps someone liked her. It is very tragic not to be liked—”    
  
“Pansy, we like you.”  
  
“Thank you, Malfoy. I do not hate you either.”    
  
There was a pause, filled only by the sound of three good mates proceeding to get even more sloshed. Draco was in the middle of admiring his sweater when Pansy piped up again, this time with barely contained enthusiasm.  
  
“What if you married someone everyone hates who is already dying?” she enthused, clapping her hands together at the very idea. “No one expects Jonathon to remarry, not now. In time, of course, but currently he is so busy spouting rot about much he loved that crotchety bag, rest her soul, that no one would dream of forcing another bride on him for, oh, at least a few years!”  
  
Draco did some mental math. He thought about all the things he could get up to in a few years, all the women he could meet, and all the liquor he could consume. The idea held potential. Thusly, he asked, “Perfect! Who do we know who is both acceptable and dying?”  
  
“And loathsome,” added Pansy. “That is very important so that you don’t feel bad about it at all.”  
  
“I can see you as a widower, Malfoy,” said Zabini. “Yes, I can see it now…”  
  
But there was a hitch; there was always a hitch. Sighing, Draco slouched back and admitted, “I don’t know anyone who is dying.”  
  
After a moment’s thought, both of his friends had to admit defeat as well. It was a true tragedy that one so beautiful, rich, and desirable as he had to be swept off the singles’ scene when he’d only worked his through a good quarter of it. Frowning, he took a morose sip of his drink, wishing that the ground would open and swallow him whole.  
  
“At least you’re not engaged to some one old enough to be your father,” sighed Pansy, referring to Alexander Gold. Her tone as morose as Malfoy’s expression, she added, “At least Astoria is a  _reasonable_  choice.”  
  
Draco pictured Gold, who was pushing sixty and was notoriously stingy and cruel mannered. Pansy Parkinson had accepted her fate with a stiff upper lip; truthfully, this was the first word of complaint he’d heard from her. From across the room, Zabini met Draco’s gaze.    
  
“Or already married to a harpy,” Zabini said.  
  
That was true too. Zabini’s wife, one Mary Calder, was as demanding and high-strung as they came. Still, Draco couldn’t bring himself to feel completely sorry for his friend; he suspected that, despite the fact that Mary was clearly off her bird, Zabini was halfway to besotted, or at very least completely addled by lust. In fact, as far as Pureblooded arranged marriages went—  
  
A loud crash from the hallway outside of their door interrupted Draco’s brooding. Glancing at his friends, he made himself stand, listening to the cursing and muffled voices from the other side of the door. Stumbling over to it to take a peak, Draco took a sobering breath and stuck his head out. Mrs. What’s-her-name, the innkeeper, was just emerging from the room across the hall, accompanied by a man Draco didn’t recognize.    
  
“What’s all this racket?” he demanded, tone lofty enough to suggest he hadn’t just pissed off a balcony or snuck in two friends without paying the extra rate.  
  
Mrs. What’s-her-name shook her head sadly and pursed her lips. “Poor little mite,” she murmured, eyes downcast. “Too sick to travel and too sick to Apparate.”  
  
Great, thought Draco. Now he—or rather his father—was paying for a room across the hall from someone infected with Merlin knew what. Resisting the urge to cover his nose and mouth, Draco scowled at the innkeeper and barked, “Well, Portkey her out of here.”  
  
Mrs. What’s-her-name’s eyes actually watered and she sniffled into her hand, undignified and loud. Draco tipped his nose up and increased the force of his scowl.  
  
“It’ll have to wait until morning. We don’t have one activated to St. Mungo’s. Such a brave girl. She probably won’t last the night.”  
  
At that dim proclamation, the innkeeper let out a tiny sob and shook her head. Draco, drunk that he was, felt behoved to pat her awkwardly on the arm. However, halfway to her person, he hesitated, thinking of contagion and all manner of disgusting things. Standing with his arm stuck out, he shot a look over his shoulder at his friends, whose faces mirrored curiosity.  
  
“Who is this brave little girl then?” demanded Draco, crossing his arms to cover his awkward not-quite-reach.  
  
“Hermione Granger,” cried the innkeeper, dabbing at her eyes. “Worse yet, Mr. Malfoy, I can’t even reach her friends.”  
  
Well, thank Merlin for that. The last thing he needed was to spend one of his last single nights with a handful of glorious war heroes. He hoped Hermione Granger would die quietly; there was drinking to be done, after all. If something pinched inside him, something close to sorrow, he would simply drown it out with brandy. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about that holier than thou witch, although he could acknowledge it was somewhat… pathetic to have to die in a little inn in the middle of nowhere, too sick to travel and too sick to Apparate, without a Portkey activated. Speaking of which, it seemed like shoddy management not to have one at the ready; Draco meant to have a strong word or two about that in the morning, when he was sober.  
  
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he said stiffly, before slamming the door shut in the innkeeper’s face. Grief made him uncomfortable; he had never been good with death.  
  
“Well?” prodded Pansy, once he was back in the living room.  
  
“Well,” said Draco, plopping back into his seat, “it seems that one third of the Golden Trio is dying across the hall from us. Granger, as it were.”  
  
It was a shame it wasn’t Weasley, he thought. Sure, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her either way, but Granger had always been the most tolerable of the three. Perhaps he’d say a brief something in way of a eulogy over breakfast.   _Dearest Hermione_ , he planned,  _the memory of your horrid hair will be forever burned into my brain. The sound of your shrill voice will haunt my ears for eternity_. He rather thought it had a nice ring to it. Across the room, Pansy’s face wrinkled in thought.  
  
“Granger?” Zabini was saying. “She’s been poking her nose around our house all last month. She’s doing some anthro… anthropo…” He snapped his fingers. “ _Anthropological_  study on house elves.”  
  
So Draco had heard. She’d been causing quite a fuss, researching the pathetic lives of house elves in order to strengthen her case that they should be freed. He’d also heard something else. Taking a bit of glee from his next statement, he said, “I heard the Ministry has cut her funding.”  
  
Zabini shook his head. “And to think she’s just now dying. Not her month, is it?”  
  
“Not at all,” agreed Draco, taking a drunken moment to sympathize with his childhood enemy. “Then again, she’s not engaged to Astoria Greengrass, is she?”  
  
“Suppose we should go over there and visit?” Zabini continued. “Think of it as PR work.”  
  
“Think of it as—”  
  
“The perfect solution!”  
  
Snapping her fingers, Pansy smiled at her friends. Draco, who had rather forgotten about her in the room, sent her a confused look; naturally, he did not like Granger, but  _smiling_  about her death seemed a tad cold. In fact, it was a shame that she should have such an undignified end, if he really thought about it.  
  
“To what?” he asked, cautiously.  
  
Standing, Pansy looked about ready to clap her hands. “She’s dying, Draco!”  
  
“Yes,” he agreed.  
  
“In fact, she most likely will not last the night. I heard Mrs. Hill. You hate her, we hate her, and all of good society hates her and her meddling ways. Think of it now, you halfwit!”  
  
So Draco thought, which was harder than it should have been, cursed brandy. He thought about a lot of things, and in the end, his smile was just as fiendish.  
  
**  
  
Granger’s room, to Draco’s shock, was not guarded and the door was not locked. There was no sign of Potter or Weasley; there was no sign of anyone. Merlin bless him, it was looking like he might just get away with this most nefarious scheme. Still, he wished Pansy was with him for this terrible moment of kidnapping Granger from her sickbed; he did so hate germs.  
  
Swallowing, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. Darkness greeted him, broken up only by the shallow sounds of Granger’s breathing. The room stank of sickness and he almost abandoned the plan then and there. However, he reminded himself of Astoria’s money hungry ways and his own love for freedom, and it was enough to propel him forward, guided by the light of his wand.  
  
This room was considerably smaller than his; it took no more than ten steps to reach the single bed pushed under the window. Granger lay on her side, face shadowed and sallow. She seemed shrunken somehow; the death knell of her breathing set him on edge. From somewhere distant, he felt a pang of something that might have been a sick combination of surprised grief and guilt, but he was quick to squash it. Granger, after all, was saving him; she’d always been about saving people. Yes, it made sense that she’d probably volunteer for this position, if she was conscious.    
  
“Granger,” he hissed, prodding her arm with his wand.  
  
She moved a little, face wrinkling, and let out a moan. Not dead yet, then. He wondered if he could levitate her down the stairs; the thought of touching someone as sick as she made his skin crawl. There was a pot by her bed, mercifully unused, and he stepped around it to get closer.  
  
“Are you contagious?” he whispered, voice urgent. “Say something. I do not wish to be infected by your Muggle germs.” Dying himself, after all, did ruin the plan.  
  
Granger muttered something and opened her eyes, gaze blank and unfocused. She coughed her way through a few breaths; Draco, freezing, waited a moment until he was certain the innkeeper wasn’t coming. Then, Granger looked at him and muttered something about daisies. Delirious then. Taking a steadying breath, he leaned forward and tugged her into a sitting position. She was hot to the touch, a scalding and stinking shell of her former glory.  
  
“We’re going to take a fieldtrip,” he told her, trying not to breathe in her vicinity as he pushed an arm under her. “Can you stand?”  
  
She couldn’t. He tried twice to get her on her feet before admitting defeat. Holding his breath, he got both arms under her and lifted her, cradling her awkwardly to his chest. Her hair tickled his chin and she felt too light, brittle even. That pang came back but he forced himself to hold steady, ignoring the disgusting scent of stale vomit that clung to her like a diseased cloak.  
  
“I’m going to make you the toast of Pureblood society,” he told her. “How will you like that?”  
  
Her forehead crinkled at his voice and she made a noise of displeasure, but she was too weak to do anything more than twitch in his hold. Adjusting, Draco took the ten steps to the door and peeked his head out. The coast was clear.  
  
“I’m going to make you a Malfoy,” he whispered, creeping down the hall and taking care not to smack her head or her legs into anything. There was, after all, no need to make anything worse. “My parents will be furious, of course, but at least you won’t live long enough to pollute our name. That ought to count for something.” In fact, it could even be spun favourably, all things considered.  
  
Granger’s lips pushed together, puckering before parting on a sigh. Out in the light of the hallway, she was completely ashen. It was a shame, he thought. However much he’d hated her, however awful he was being now, he didn’t precisely wish death upon her. It was unsettling seeing her so weak. He was used to her fire, even if he hadn’t been caught directly in its path since the end of the war.  
  
“We’re going on one final mission,” he crooned, reaching the door that led to the back stairs. Pansy, who had gone to bribe someone capable of performing a wedding ceremony, and Zabini, who was putting his questionable ethics to work and drawing up legal papers that could be touched up at the last moment, were supposed to be waiting for him outside. “Don’t you like missions? This is a very grand one. You’re saving me for marriage by marrying me. Such lovely trickery, don’t you think?”  
  
Granger’s hand fisted into his shirt. “Ron?” she muttered, voice cracking.  
  
The pang became a clamour. This was low, even for him. Thinking of the end goal, Draco gulped past a twang of conscience.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he continued, wobbling down the steps. “I’ll see you get a funeral suitable of a Malfoy. Perhaps I’ll even donate to one of your ridiculous crusades. Would you like that?”  
  
“Save the house elves,” she muttered, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. She took a deep breath, lungs whining, and blinked. Her face was red and shiny; in his arms, she began to shiver.    
  
“Yes, of course.” He rolled his eyes. Hermione Granger, noble until the bitter end.  
  
Pushing open the door with his hip, Draco manipulated them both outside. It was chilly out; Granger’s shivers became shudders. He had to hold onto her a little too much when he set her on her feet, but he managed to get his cloak around her shoulders without dropping her. There was no need to be a complete arse; in the morning, he would simply burn his contaminated clothing.  
  
“Merlin, she’s a mess,” breathed a voice he didn’t recognize.  
  
Looking up, Draco spotted his friends a few yards away, standing with a portly man of middling age.    
  
“Draco, please meet Mr. Underhill,” Pansy introduced, peering at Granger with morbid curiosity. “He’s a friend of my father’s.”  
  
That explained away all the questionable niceties of illegal marriages, thought Draco. Zabini’s mouth was grim, but he held up a few papers.  
  
“Half done,” he said. “It’ll look very legitimate by tomorrow morning.”  
  
“We’re ready if you are.” Even Pansy looked like she was having qualms of conscience.  
  
Granger, the most oblivious of them all, swayed against his side and gagged up air. Cringing, Draco held her closer and braced himself to go through with this. He clearly was the worst sort of person.  
  
“So, what now?” he asked, rubbing at Granger’s arm to warm her. “Do we need a church or…?”  
  
“Here is fine,” decided Mr. Underhill, turning beady eyes on Draco, who had the strangest feeling that her death didn’t unnerve him at all. In fact, he looked full of fiendish delight. Unexpectedly, Draco was glad Granger wasn’t more with it. “I was made to understand that time is of the essence.”  
  
“That it is.” Gulping, Draco gave his soon-to-be-wife an uncomfortable squeeze. “Proceed.”  
  
From a distance, Draco listened to Mr. Underhill’s droning vows, focusing mainly on keeping Granger upright. She was blinking at everything, eyes unfocused, and was leaning too heavily on his side. Her hair was sticking to her forehead; Draco had never felt so uncomfortable in all of his life.  
  
But the end goal, and all that. As such, when the time was right, he said, “I do” quite steadily.  
  
Getting Granger to say it was another matter; Mr. Underhill, as underhanded as he was, insisted upon it. It took almost ten minutes of leading questions to get her to mutter the appropriate phrase. More appropriate still, Draco had to help her vomit in a bush immediately after proclaiming it.    
  
Not feeling much better himself, he pried off the Malfoy ring from his finger, slipping it onto her pointer finger, the only one it would fit. The diamonds in the M winked up at him, laughed at him it seemed, and he had to pass his bride to Zabini in order to sign the papers. It was another load of work getting Granger to do so as well; in the end, her signature was hardly legible. He wished he was still sloshed. As it was, the alcohol content of his body was fading enough to leave him with the beginnings of a dull headache.  
  
“It’ll do,” shrugged Zabini.    
  
And, just like that, it was a done deal. There was an awkward moment after the faux ceremony, before Mr. Underhill cleared his throat and departed with a pop.    
  
“Congratulations?” offered Zabini, eyeing Granger as she lilted against Draco. “Poor thing really doesn’t look very well, does she?”  
  
Pansy, too, looked a little grey. “We did right for Draco,” she insisted, tipping up her chin. “May Granger pass quickly, for her own sake.”  
  
“She was a good woman, wasn’t she?” Zabini admitted, looking uncomfortable.    
  
They were all terrible people, decided Draco. Aloud, he said, “I should get her back to bed.”  
  
His friends nodded and muttered excuses about places to be and people to see. They left him alone in the night, a shuddering Granger in his arms. Sighing, he lifted his bride—Merlin, what a term—and went back inside.  
  
**  
  
He had expected to drift off to a blissful sleep, content in his own freedom. Astoria Greengrass would never have him now; he meant to spin a wild tale of forbidden love, complete with a tragic end. He meant many things, but all that happened in actuality was insomnia and an uneasy conscience.    
  
Therefore, three in the morning found him sneaking across the hall and into Granger’s room. She was where he had left her, curled once again into her side. She’d been sick once upon returning and Draco cleared the mess from the pot with a wave of his wand. He’d heard Mrs. What’s-her-name check on her twice but now she was alone, facing death rather stoutly, he thought. If the innkeeper had noticed the addition of her client’s ring, she’d said nothing to him.  
  
Sighing, Draco made to sit on the bed, ignoring his germ fears in favour of easing his conscience. It was a tight fit with the both of them, but he managed to finagle enough room for her to burrow into his side. Pushing her hair off her forehead, he held her hand and listened to her breathe. He would go in an hour, he decided, but for now, he would sit with her. No one should have to die alone.    
  
“I’m sorry your friends couldn’t be here,” he whispered. “If that useless woman hasn’t found them by morning, I will try my best. Maybe I’ll even find you a medi-witch. Perhaps she can help ease… help make it better.”  
  
_If you’re still alive_ , he added mentally. Granger coughed, chest heaving, and squeezed his hand weakly. She wasn’t upset, which meant she still didn’t know it was him. That was good in Draco’s books.  
  
“Well, Mrs. Malfoy,” he murmured, “I suppose I owe you a heartfelt thank you.”  
  
Except, in the darkness of her bedroom, thank you seemed like a stupid sentiment. Rubbing her back, he closed his eyes and said a quick prayer for her sake. His conscience was alive and loud but it would fade in time. He had done some horrible things, and it had always quieted in the past. Granger was dying but she had freed him. Still, it didn’t comfort him. Gently, he curled his fingers around hers and took a deep breath, listening to the clock tick in the hallway.    
  
It was like this that Mrs. What’s-her-name found them an hour later. Her face was flushed with grief; truly, Draco realized, she thought Hermione Granger wasn’t going to make it. He tightened his grip on her hand, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was wishing for. Her fingers, sticky and damp with fever, squeezed weakly back.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy?” exclaimed Mrs. What’s-her-name, clearly startled.  
  
Draco took a look at Granger’s sallow features. Now was as good a time as any to start, he figured, wishing all the bad feelings he was having would bugger off. Looking mournful was not as difficult as he’d imagined it might be when he turned his gaze on the innkeeper.  
  
“I imagine it must be a shock to see me like this.” Here, Draco chuckled, noting it sounded appropriately downtrodden and self-mocking.    
  
“To say the least,” she said.  
  
Draco schooled his expression for pure melancholy, and took a deep breath. “We’re in love,” he admitted on a guilty rush. “You won’t have heard. It’s been secret, what with my father and…” He let the pause say  _her questionable bloodlines_  for him. It was, most importantly, all in being tactful.  
  
Mrs. What’s-her-name looked pained. “Oh, you poor dear! I had no idea!”  
  
He wondered if slamming the door in her face earlier had given her that impression. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he angled Hermione’s hand so that the innkeeper could see his ring.  
  
“I know it’s not the done thing,” he murmured, hoping his downward glance looked devastated and not guilty. “I was just so afraid…” Oh, if only he could fake a sob!  
  
However, Mrs. What’s-her-name didn’t need fake sobs. Coming to Draco’s side, she touched his arm and offered a truly sympathetic smile. Draco died a little on the inside.    
  
“That’s very romantic,” insisted the innkeeper. “She’s lucky to have a man like you.”  
  
Draco winced before disentangling himself from Granger. Rising, he adjusted the covers and said, “I’m going to leave her in your hands. Potty…  _Potter_  and Weasley must be notified.” He cleared his throat, watching the innkeeper watch him, before impulsively leaning to press his lips against Granger’s forehead. The alcohol, and all that.   _Farewell_ , he thought, though he couldn’t say exactly that it had been nice knowing her.  
  
That done, Draco took off as though Voldemort himself was waiting in the bedroom. For the second time that evening, he closed the door in Mrs. What’s-her-name’s face, Apparating away without a sound.


	2. Love is a Game

_“Love is a game that two can play and both win.”  
_

\- Eva Gabor

  
  
  
Hermione Granger awoke to a great and terrible thirst in a strange bed in a room full of people she didn’t know. Trying not to panic, she blinked a few times, until the blurry shapes took the form of Ron and Harry, plus two women she didn’t recognize. Her head was pounding and she was having the damnedest time trying to swallow. There, on the bedside table, was water. Groaning, she reached for the cup.  
  
The conversation in the room came to a halt. Ron was by her side in an instant, followed in short order by one of the women, who touched her forehead and poked and prodded as she pleased. Harry was smiling in the background. As for the other woman, she looked positively radiant.  
  
“How are you feeling?” asked the first woman, feeling Hermione’s glands. “We gave you quite a potion, my dear. You’ve been out for two days.”  
  
That explained the horrible feeling pounding through her body. Sitting up made her a bit dizzy, but Hermione persevered, downing her water in one gigantic gulp. Ron was smiling proudly, as if drinking water was some sort of great accomplishment; the first woman, a medi-witch by Hermione’s estimation, moved so that Harry could come closer.  
  
“I feel all right,” allowed Hermione after a cautious second of appraisal. She did not feel great, that was true, but the water was staying down. “What happened?”  
  
“What happened?” exclaimed Ron, voice rising in hysteria. “I’ll tell you what happened, Hermione. You—”  
  
“Had a really bad case of the flu. Your fever was so high we were worried for your heart,” interjected Harry, giving Ron a look.    
  
However, Hermione knew Harry’s look and Ron’s tone. She knew the lecture that accompanied them well. They were concerned, her friends, that she was working herself to death, swamped by a scientific study of the lives of creatures no one cared about. Remembering her work reminded her that the Ministry, shortsighted buggers, had cut her funding and rendered her project nearly impossible. It was enough to make her feel sick all over again. Slumping back onto the bed, she harrumphed a sad sigh, frustrated and tired of a sudden.  
  
“I thought you were going to die,” burst out the other woman, clenching her hands. “That’s how sick you were. I’m so happy you’ve recovered!” Her gaze turned mischievous. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who will be.”  
  
Okay, thought Hermione, cracking open one eye to peer at this woman. She most certainly hoped that a woman she didn’t know wouldn’t be the only person happy to have seen her beat death. What a sad thought if the woman wasn’t.    
  
“Hermione, this is Mrs. Hill,” said Harry, waving a hand at the other woman. “You’re at her inn.”  
  
“It was as far as you could travel,” Mrs. Hill said. “We had to bring help here.”  
  
How sick had she been? She wondered briefly at the date. If the potion had knocked her out for that long… but everything before it was a blur. Out of nowhere, Hermione wanted her mother. It didn’t matter that she was on the mend; it didn’t matter that she was twenty-five. All that mattered was that she was still thirsty and her head was a groggy mess.  
  
“Malfoy tracked us down,” Ron told her, eyes narrowing. “I’ve got to hand it to the bastard. Harry and I were on a mission. Can’t think of how many strings he pulled to find us. Rather scary, really.”  
  
“A mission?” And Malfoy? The room lilted and she closed her eyes, wondering why on earth that pathetic lout of a human being had even known she was sick, let alone had gone to such great lengths to bring her friends to her side. There was something off and unsettling about it, to say the least. Perhaps she really  _had_  nearly died.  
  
“Top secret Auror business,” said Harry. Even with her eyes closed, she could hear the twinkle in his tone, which made her feel better. “This is Mrs. White, by the way. She’s his family’s personal medi-witch.” This was stranger still.  
  
Nodding at Mrs. White, Hermione demanded, “How did Malfoy know I was sick? Was he here?” She had to swallow to ask this, tongue sticky and swollen. Merlin, she would kill for a toothbrush.  
  
“Why, yes.” That was Mrs. Hill and she sounded confused, which confounded Hermione even more. Last she’d checked, it was a free country; Malfoy could, she supposed, have been staying at this inn for whatever reason and been well within his bounds. A ghost of a memory bubbled but refused to form; a horrible feeling that she couldn’t quite justify settled heavy in her stomach. Something was off, something was strange, and she would swear it. That, or her recently broken fever was making her paranoid. Perhaps a nap would set her to rights. She was still feeling rather weak.  
  
Sighing, she wiped her hand against her forehead—and almost took an eye out on the gaudiest ring she’d ever seen, a man’s ring. The sparkling M didn’t bode well. Blinking at it in puzzlement, she shot a look at her friends. The heavy feeling in her stomach became even more weighted. She didn’t like the looks of it, of that ring, at all. All fever-induced paranoia increased tenfold; she even forgot her thirst for one terrible second.  
  
“What is this?” Hermione asked, voice rising. Mrs. Hill was beaming, Mrs. White looked put out, and Harry and Ron were gawking at it with as much confusion as she felt. Almost. “What is this?”  
  
“We were sort of hoping you’d be able to tell us,” said Harry, laughing awkwardly.  
  
Hermione could not, but she suspected someone could; Mrs. Hill’s smile had stretched until it could not stretch anymore. Sounding fit to burst, she rushed out, “I should wait for Mr. Malfoy to tell you, but it was so romantic! To think, the two of you keeping your relationship a secret! He must love you very much to have married you in such a state. He was so concerned he wouldn’t get a chance. Do you know, when I told him you were here, he was so upset he actually slammed the door in my face?” She laughed; rather, she giggled.  
  
There was so much wrong with that statement that Hermione didn’t know where to start. For a moment, nothing happened—the room was eerily silent. Hermione almost forgot to breathe.  
  
“Beg pardon?” she squeaked, noting that Harry had gone slack jawed and Ron very still.  
  
Mrs. Hill laughed again, although she sounded uneasy now having clearly noticed the tension in the room. “Draco Malfoy,” she clarified. “He was staying here as well. Tell me, had you arranged it beforehand? A secret missive, perhaps? I daresay his father provided excellent cover, pretending to want to marry him off to someone else. Draco arranged it all the first night you were here. I’m sad to say I missed it, what with you having been so sick.”  
  
“He married  _me_?” Hysteria shot her voice to ear splitting octaves. For one awful moment, Hermione thought she might hyperventilate. Pressing her palm into her heart, she took a wild gulp of air.  
  
“Try to stay calm,” Mrs. White asserted, her face pinched. “You’re going to make yourself sick all over again.”  
  
Stay calm?   _Calm_? Hermione could hardly breathe. Gawking at the ring on her finger through watery eyes, she waited for the heart attack she was sure was imminent. Hysteria was almost too small of a word to describe what she was feeling.  
  
“I didn’t consent to this!” she all but wailed, punching her fist down into the sheets.  
  
“A moment, please,” she heard Harry say, as if from a distance.  
  
Turning her bewildered gaze on her friends, she noticed Harry’s white lipped tension and the strange shade of purple Ron’s face was turning. As the two women made their escape, Mrs. White looking displeased and Mrs. Hill horrified, stars dotted Hermione’s vision. She was going to pass out, really she was. Fighting to get herself under control, she clawed at the sheets and took a few breaths, made shallow in the face of her panic.  
  
“I’ll see him in Azkaban for this,” Harry declared, once they were alone.  
  
“Yes,” gasped Hermione. People just didn’t  _do_  that.  
  
“I’ll see him dead for this,” Ron vowed, clenching and unclenching his fists.  
  
“Yes,” she managed. People just  _couldn’t_  do that.  
  
Then, because it was all very overwhelming and nothing else seemed appropriate, Hermione proceeded to burst into tears. It was all so unfair. She had been sick, apparently on her deathbed, and that slimy waste of oxygen had weaseled his way in for Merlin knew what reason and married her. Oh, she was certain he had a reason; she was equally certain she didn’t want to know it. Swearing under her breath, she yanked at the cursed ring, pulling it from her finger and chucking it at the wall. It hit with a small clunk, falling so that the sparkling M faced her. It only made her cry harder. Never in her whole life had she felt so violated, so used. She had been coerced—tricked—into marriage.  
  
Her tears prompted a rush of frenzy from her friends. Harry was at her side in an instant, shoving his way onto the bed to sit beside her. She sagged into his arms, trying to calm down, as Ron sat on the foot of the bed, one clenched fist falling to rest near her ankle. She noted that he was still purple. Oh, Malfoy deserved what was coming to him. She couldn’t  _wait_  until—  
  
“I’ve learned quite a few neat little tricks in Auror training,” Ron was saying, squeezing her ankle in time with his words. “I’m going to make that ferret suffer slowly. I’m going to make that ferret wish he’d never been born.”  
  
Yes, yes, yes, thought Hermione, nodding frantically.  
  
“He has really crossed the line this time,” agreed Harry, voice low and deadly.  
  
Anger was a strange thing. It turned out to be quite contagious. Ending her tears on a strangled choke, Hermione felt a wave of pure fury overtake her. You couldn’t just marry someone on her deathbed; you couldn’t just do that sort of thing without consent. It couldn’t be  _legal_. She had been wronged and Malfoy was going to pay. She was going to ruin him worse than he’d ever been ruined before. He was going to kiss her feet and beg for mercy.  
  
Narrowing her eyes, she looked at both her friends. “He will rue the day he was born.”  
  
**  
  
It took some finagling to get Ron and Harry to wait for her to recover before rushing off to kill Malfoy. To think that her friends honestly thought she would miss out on what was sure to be the best day of her life—the day she killed her husband. Merlin, it was too much. Fighting off a second round of tears, she wiggled against her pillows, trying to find a more comfortable way of propping herself up, and choked down a spoonful of soup.    
  
It was all so grossly unfair that Hermione didn’t know where to start. She’d envisioned her wedding day many times, of course she had. She wanted a winter wedding, complete with a horse drawn carriage and red roses, and… and  _Ron_. Granted, she was almost certain that ship had sailed—Ron hadn’t made even so much as a hint of a promise since their failed attempt at dating years before—but she was a patient girl. She’d distracted herself thoroughly with work, and she’d been waiting. One day, she’d always assumed, Ron would wake up and smell those bloody red roses and marry her one sunny February morning. There was going to be cake and a gaggle of smiling Weasleys. She’d been  _certain_. Now, however, she’d had some sham ceremony she couldn’t remember and an ex Death Eater as a groom.    
  
Worse yet, she didn’t even have work to turn to, now that they’d cut her funding. To think, she’d just started to make headway; she’d just been gaining the trust of the house elves. She’d uncovered some truly marvellous things, like birth rituals, and then  _bam_. The Ministry had yanked the proverbial rug out from under her feet. Projects did not work without funding. She was a smart girl; she knew no one would fund her privately. The thought had her eyes watering all over again. She had an ex Death Eater groom, an unrequited love who was probably going to end up in Azkaban for murdering said groom, and no job. It was all just so  _awful_. Indulging in a moment of self-pity, Hermione wished the flu had just carried her off. Clearly, there was nothing to live for.  
  
Oh, why did Malfoy have to come along and make everything worse? It didn’t even make sense. She hadn’t even talked to him since Hogwarts, not really. His exploits, of course, were legendary; everyone who got the  _Prophet_  was subject to melodramatic tales of his stupid life, straight from the gossip columns. However, she hadn’t even seen him, and rumours around the Ministry had led her to believe that Lucius had had enough. So,  _why_  then had he done this? Why—  
  
A knock on her bedroom door interrupted her musings. Though she didn’t want company, she cleared her throat and muttered, “Come in.”  
  
The door opened, revealing Mrs. Hill. Hermione hadn’t wanted to see her, not really; Ron and Harry were not even over her shoulder. If they had left without her—  
  
“They’re in the kitchen,” said Mrs. Hill, smiling uncomfortably. “May I come in?”  
  
Why not? Nothing the woman could say could make it any worse. Sighing, Hermione set aside her soup bowl and sat a little straighter, pulling self-consciously at her pyjama top. As soon as Mrs. Hill was gone, she was going to have a bath. Being clean made everything better. Maybe she could scrub her wedding vows right off.  
  
Chewing at her lip, Mrs. Hill came closer, before being distracted by that bloody ring, still on the floor. She bent and picked it up, tracing a finger along the M, before holding it out to Hermione, who turned her nose up at it.  
  
“I owe you an apology,” rushed out Mrs. Hill, flushing. “I had no idea. He seemed so sincere…”  
  
“He’s always been a tricky manipulative git,” grumbled Hermione, wishing she could hate Mrs. Hill just so she could really hate someone close. Still, the older woman looked truly apologetic and, well, motherly. Hermione’s lip trembled, but she was  _not_  going to cry again. It was getting ridiculous. She was not a crier. She was also not a bride, but that was neither here nor there.  
  
“I should have known.” The other woman shrugged. “He was very cavalier at first. It wasn’t until I mentioned you were dying…”    
  
“No one dies of the flu,” argued Hermione. “Hardly.”  
  
Mrs. Hill nodded distractedly. “I might have overreacted, I’ll admit it. Granted, I never thought he’d…”  
  
“Yes, well.” Hermione pulled in a deep breath. “How could you? Who would honestly think that someone would specifically want a dying bride?”  
  
_Unless_. Unless the rumours at the Ministry were true. And what had Mrs. Hill said earlier? Something about Lucius meeting with a prospective bride here? Hermione narrowed her eyes.    
  
“Was he alone?” she asked.  
  
“He was supposed to be. I heard voices. It’s policy, you know. He would have owed extra, but I was rather distracted.”  
  
So the bastard had had help with his nefarious scheme. She was going to track them down, one by one; just watch her. There was going to be wrath. And hellfire. Maybe she’d like some of that too.  
  
“I don’t blame you, Mrs. Hill,” she said, as fairly as she could; truly, she didn’t.  
  
Besides, her mental wheels were turning. It made a sick sort of sense, really. Marry the dying woman to postpone an imminent marriage. It would have bought him at least a year without being unseemly, perhaps more depending on the tales he spun. Too bad she hadn’t actually died. It served him right, getting saddled with her. Oh, how she was going to make him pay!  
  
“It’s fraudulent, what he did,” she pointed out, lest Mrs. Hill be harbouring some secret sympathy.  
  
“I know,” sighed the other woman, twisting Malfoy’s ring in her fingers. “It was very wrong. However, he did sit with you, find your friends, and send his own personal medi-witch. How horrible can he be?”  
  
“You have no idea.”  
  
Smile softening, Mrs. Hill reached forward and placed the ring on the bedside table. Hermione barely resisted a childish urge to flick it back on the floor. It was a gigantic effort to hold her smile steady as Mrs. Hill exited; as soon as the door closed, Hermione slumped back against the pillow and harrumphed to herself.    
  
That bastard. Frowning, she grabbed his ring, staring at it hard. He just had to take the worst month of her life and make it somehow more miserable. And he’d left his family ring too. What, as some kind of proof? Did he think her friends would pawn it? That was laughable. Maybe she would pawn it. Fund her elf activities with—  
  
The thought stopped her dead in her tracks. She felt guilty even thinking it. It would be wrong to… to…  _use_ him, to stay in this sham of a marriage, to take his money and his connections. It would be wrong not to see him rotting in Azkaban. He would never go along with it. His parents would kill him… or her. Or him.    
  
A fiendish smile lit her face. Oh, she could see it now. She’d destroy the Malfoy reputation with her Muggle ways, get her project up off the ground, and then leave him high and dry. The thought startled a laugh out of her; what a way to make him pay!  
  
Still smiling evilly, she huddled back down in her bed and vowed to forget it. Once Harry and Ron rejoined her, she would request someone find her a bath, and then she’d contact the Magical Law Enforcement and get this whole thing straightened out. Her thoughts were ridiculous and rather mean. She’d put them from her mind, have a snooze, and wake up ready to kill.  
  
**  
  
However, perhaps Azkaban wasn’t punishment enough. Also, the Malfoys were notoriously slippery. They’d managed to escape after the war with a paltry year’s house arrest. Who was to say anything would stick?  
  
**  
  
Furthermore, did she not have an obligation to help out the helpless? It was a rare opportunity, if one ever presented itself. Thinking of how horrified the Malfoys would be at having to fund house elf research made her smile; it held a certain appeal, didn’t it?    
  
**  
  
Ron most likely was never going to come around, painful thought. After all, he’d had  _years_. Perhaps this would motivate him into action? It was something to consider.  
  
**  
  
Not to mention, Malfoy seemed to have felt at least the tiniest amount of guilt. He'd sat with her, found her friends, and sent his personal medi-witch. Not that that made it better, but...  
  
**  
  
Were forced marriages even illegal? Sure, she could get it annulled; had Malfoy actually broken any laws? It wasn’t like he’d kidnapped her. Was annulment punishment enough?  
  
**  
  
It was such a shame to leave her research when she’d just started to learn about funeral rites. Fascinating really; house elves, it seemed, had a form of religion, hitherto undiscovered. Culturally speaking, she had a duty to document it. Perhaps if Wizarding society  _knew_ …  
  
**  
  
It wasn’t like it would be a  _real_  marriage. She would sweep in and do what needed to be done, like a business affair. Then she would annul him when it was over. Divorce? Obviously, she was going to need to do some research.    
  
**  
  
And hire counsel.  
  
**  
  
Not that she was considering it, of course. Ron and Harry would be so disappointed.    
  
**  
  
Ron and Harry did know how important her work was, though. Perhaps they would even be proud of her, being as noble and self-sacrificing as she was. What was that Muggle term? Gold-digging? Well, she was being that too, but her  _intent_  was what mattered. After all, someone had to save the house elves, didn't they?  
  
**  
  
The next afternoon, Hermione’s mind was made up. Standing before the oval mirror in her room, she put a few final touches on her hair and smoothed her hands over her robes—not her best, not by a long shot, but they would do. Harry and Ron were waiting downstairs, under the impression that she would need an escort to murder Malfoy. Little did they know…  
  
Feeling a tiny prickle of misgiving, she stretched her smile wide and batted her eyes at her mirror. It made her look a tad bit delusional, but then she was, wasn’t she? If only her colour was better.    
  
“I am Hermione Malfoy,” she said, resisting the urge to gag. She wished she’d never even heard of house elves. “I have been secretly involved with Draco Malfoy.” That sentence  _did_  make her gag, but she forced her smile back and steeled her shoulders.  
  
It was time to let Ron and Harry in on the plan. It was time to brave. It was time to go to Malfoy Manor.


	3. Marriage Means Commitment

_"Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity."_

  
\- Unknown

  
  
“You can’t honestly expect us to let you go through with this.”  
  
Running a hand over the nicest pair of robes she owned, Hermione stared hard at Ron’s reflection in her mirror. She’d left Mrs. Hill’s inn that morning, after gaining the woman’s promise to not mention the events that had transpired days prior, and had returned to her flat for some last minute primping. She’d hoped against hope that Ron and Harry would return to their mission like the dutiful Aurors they were supposed to be; rather, they’d been tailing her since yesterday morning, when she’d revealed her plan.  
  
“It’s the best option for my project,” she said tightly, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. What did a girl have to do to rush headlong into a nightmare marriage these days?  
  
“If this is about money,” Harry began, “I’ll help you. Only say the word, Hermione. The thought of you with  _Malfoy_ \--”  
  
“That evil ferret,” grumbled Ron.  
  
“—after everything we’ve already been through…”  
  
Hermione waved Harry’s words away. “It’s too much money, Harry. The opportunity has presented itself. You know I wouldn’t do this if I hadn’t thought it through. I can tolerate him for a while, I assure you. Besides, it’s not like I’m jeopardizing my social life.”  
  
She met Ron’s eyes in the mirror when she said that and held contact for a brief moment. He was spluttering, which was a very Ron thing to do, and Hermione willed him to form the words she wanted to hear, the only words that would stop her from doing this.  
  
“This self-sacrificing has got to stop,” was what he said instead. “They’re just house elves, Hermione. They’re perfectly happy with their lot in life. You haven’t found anything to indicate otherwise.”  
  
Irritation warred with disappointment, but hurt won out. Chewing at her lip, she barely suppressed a sigh. How was it, she wondered, that after so many years of unrequited love Ron was willing to let her go? Could it possibly be that he felt nothing for her outside of friendship? Something twisted painfully inside of her, but she resolutely squashed it. She’d been ignoring that pain for years, through every one of Ron’s idiotic relationships; she could keep on ignoring it until he wised up. However, she still thought this was a perfect time to play Prince Charming. Did he not know his role at all? There were Draco Malfoys to be slain, for Merlin’s sake.  
  
“They’re not just house elves to me,” she insisted, pulling self-consciously at the ties on her robes. Nodding at herself in the mirror, she added, “I’m going now. Please lock up my flat on the way out.”  
  
She took her time getting her wand, waiting for the words she knew had to be coming. Then, when it became more than painfully clear that Harry and Ron were concerned only for their best chum and not their best chum and secretly-pined-for-someday-girlfriend, she held up a hand for silence and left her flat with a small  _pop_.  
  
**  
  
The Malfoys had peacocks. Hermione had forgotten. Gripping her wand tight lest one of the terrifying creatures stray too close, she marched up the drive, trying not to be overwhelmed by three factors: the last time she’d been here, she’d been tortured, the Manor was huge and intimidating, and the Manor was full of Malfoys. Overall, she was quite certain this wasn’t going to be a pleasure visit. Somewhere from her left, a peacock squawked; Hermione jumped despite herself, before steeling her shoulders. She hadn’t come this far to be eaten by a bloody bird, after all. Let one of those albino bastards wander into her personal space. When it came to birds, her personal space bubble was a very big thing.  
  
Around the drive, Hermione could see hints of the infamous Malfoy gardens, but she spared them hardly a second glance. It was not very nice to say she sprinted up the steps as though the hounds of hell—or white peacocks—were nipping at her heels, but that was exactly what she did. Sacrificing a moment to gain her composure, she grabbed a hold of the doorknocker, just as gaudy and unnecessarily elaborate as those bloody birds, and banged it twice.  
  
Please, dear Lord, she thought, do not let Lucius Malfoy be the type to answer his own door. She didn’t think she could face him down first. It was best to destroy the son, really. What would she even say?   _Hello, Dad! Are you ready to welcome me to the family?_  The thought made her titter. In fact, if Lucius Malfoy were to answer the door—  
  
The door opened without as much as a creak, revealing a timid looking house elf with the largest blue eyes Hermione had ever seen. Feeling prickles of professional curiosity, she cocked her head and examined her, from the top of her head, sparsely covered with hair, to the tips of her toes, peeking out from underneath her faded pink pillowcase turned dress. She didn’t look abused or mistreated, but Hermione had long ago learned that first appearances meant very little. Anyway, it was fascinating; she’d almost forgotten about Malfoy’s very own house elves what with all the other upset.  
  
“Hello,” she said, shooting the house elf a friendly—not patronizing; that was very important—smile. “Who might you be?”  
  
The house elf dropped a peculiar curtsy. “Petunia, ma’am,” she squeaked.  
  
“Pleasure to meet you,” returned Hermione, meaning it. “Tell me, is your master home? Master Draco, that is.”  
  
“Master Draco is being with visitors,” Petunia announced, staring bashfully at her toes.  
  
Bugger, thought Hermione. Squatting, she regarded Petunia at eye level—or she would have had the elf looked up.    
  
“Visitors?” she questioned, crossing mental fingers. Merlin,  _anyone_  but his insufferable friends. She had a sneaking suspicion that if she left Malfoy Manor, she would be leaving her plan behind too. Despite her brave face, her stomach was churning with misgivings.  
  
Petunia nodded, ears flopping. “But Master Draco said to be bringing him any urgent news of Mistress Malfoy right as soon as Petunia hears it.”  
  
Hermione blinked and was in the middle of weighing the pros and cons of leaving when she realized that the Mistress Malfoy Petunia was referring to was, in fact, she herself.   _Mistress Malfoy_. That name was going to take a very long time to get used to—longer, hopefully, than this blasted marriage would last.  
  
Standing, she clenched her hands together nervously before beaming all sorts of false happiness at Petunia. “Well, here is your news! Please take me to him at once.”  
  
Shooting Hermione a shy smile, Petunia opened the doors the rest of the way and gestured that she follow her down the hall. Fearing she might lose her nerve if she got caught up in the wonder—and the horror—that was the Manor, Hermione focused her gaze on the back of Petunia’s head. One foot in front of the other, and all that. One step at a time. Sadly, it took very few steps to reach the room Petunia had led her to, or very few steps by Hermione’s panicked reckoning. Her palms felt sweaty; it took years of decent Muggle breeding not to wipe them impolitely on her robes.  
  
“Who are his guests, Petunia?” she asked, lowering her voice lest Malfoy somehow overhear her through the thick oak door.  
  
“Master Malfoy’s guests is with the  _Daily Prophet_ ,” replied the house elf, matching her pitch to Hermione’s.    
  
Ugh. Trying to keep her growing hysteria from her smile, she offered her hand to Petunia. After a moment, the house elf took it, folding smaller fingers around Hermione’s.  
  
“Pleased to meet you, Petunia.”  
  
“Petunia is pleased to be meeting you too, Mistress Malfoy.”    
  
That said, Petunia was off with a pop, leaving Hermione to hover outside of the aforementioned oak doors. What would Malfoy want with reporters, she wondered, patting fretfully at her hair. What good were outside witnesses unless—  
  
Oh, that bugger! Unless he meant to blast word of their marriage all over the Wizarding world. To think she wasn’t even cold in her grave yet—to think she wasn’t even  _in_  her grave yet! He must have been nervous when no news had arrived and rather than doing the decent thing and… and—  
  
Gritting her teeth, Hermione put her hand on the doorknob, ready to charge. In fact, her fingers had already clenched the cool brass before she realized that she could  _hear_  him. Skidding to a stop, she hesitated. It was best to know the lay of the land, and all that.    
  
“It all began outside of the Ministry one afternoon not yet four months ago,” Malfoy was saying, voice laden with false grief. “I was there on business with my father and I ran into her leaving the grounds. Of course, it was hardly love at first re-introduction. She’s always been a spitfire, my dearest Hermione. However, as soon as I saw that glorious confection of curls and her adorable little nose wrinkled in anger, I just… I  _just_ …”    
  
He paused and Hermione heard something undignified that sounded rather like a nose being blown. Oh, honestly! She wrinkled her not-so-adorable nose in distaste, sneering at the door as though it was Malfoy.    
  
“We hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell our friends,” he resumed, tone tragic. “I’d always imagined a wedding with Harry Potter as my best man, not the rushed thing we ended up with. Hermione deserves so much better.”  
  
Harry Potter as his best man? That was laying it on thick. Hermione swallowed down a rather overwhelming urge to gag. She wished she was recording this conversation; Harry might have gotten a good chuckle out of it.    
  
Biting her lip, she decided it was time to end this charade—or begin it, depending on perspectives. Throwing back her shoulders, she turned the knob and barged into the sitting room, just as Malfoy was saying, “If only she could be with us right now.”  
  
“Darling!” she cried, hating herself a little.    
  
At any other point in time, the moment might have been comical. Malfoy, already pasty, paled even further, his mouth falling open to a perfect  _o_. She watched him blink with panic, amused herself on the inside. His gaze darted left, where two reporters were sitting, quills at the ready, before shooting back to her face. He repeated this twice more, slack jawed and more than a little on the spot.  
  
“Granger,” he began, gaping, “you look so… so…”  
  
“Alive?” she supplied, shooting the whole room her most beatific smile. As far as entrances went, she didn’t think this was half-bad.  
  
The reporters were watching with interest now; Malfoy was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. She let the moment stretch for maximum poignancy purely for her own enjoyment. Oh, the pleasure of watching Malfoy squirm like the lying little leech he was! It was almost enough to make a girl giggle.    
  
“Yes, alive,” he managed to croak out, looking again at the reporters. “Thank Merlin.”  
  
Hermione’s cheeks were starting to ache from the pure wattage of her grin, but her feet felt rooted to the floor. This was the tricky part, the sell. This part made her insides churn with nausea. Taking a deep breath, she made herself move, nicest heels clicking against the hardwood as she all but rushed Malfoy. Thank God for the momentum that propelled her forward when her nerves nearly failed. She collapsed against Malfoy’s chest with a gag quickly disguised as a coo of pleasure and made her arms rise to encircle his waist. Oh, she could hardly even  _contemplate_  what she was doing, but yes, just there; her cheek was cuddled into his chest and his chin was digging into her head. Hell had definitely frozen over.  
  
“I’ve missed you!” She wanted to punch herself in the face.  
  
There was a terrible moment. Malfoy’s chest moved against her, in time with each startled breath he sucked in. If she wasn’t so disgusted, she might have noted that he didn’t smell  _awful_  exactly. It could have been worse then. No, he smelt of money, of expensive liquor and cologne. Merlin, how she wanted his money! Snuggling even closer, she thought of house elves and sticking it to those wretched Ministry officials.    
  
“And I you.” His voice sounded strained. Then, his arms were around her, hugging her close, and… and… oh  _no_ , but that felt like his lips in her hair. Hermione tasted bile.  
  
Pulling back, she smiled at the reporters before beaming up at Malfoy, who had yet to regain his full lack of colour. “You couldn’t wait for me to announce it? So impatient!” She swatted his arm, perhaps harder than was strictly necessary.  
  
“My bride,” said Malfoy, shoving her off him as politely as possible. She thought for a moment that he might pat her head. “I’m sure you know Hermione Gran—”  
  
“Malfoy,” she interjected, glaring at him in what she hoped was a fond manner. “Hermione Malfoy.”  
  
Malfoy glared back, before rolling his eyes up in apparent resignation. Hermione, being a persistent person, kept on smiling. She recognized neither reporter.    
  
“You’re feeling quite recovered?” asked one.  
  
“Yes, thank you.” She laughed, cringing when it sounded off-kilter. “Quite a scare!”    
  
“Your young husband was quite beside himself,” said the other.  
  
“Yes, quite,” grunted Malfoy, looking like he wished she’d die this very instant. Then, seeming to remember who else was in the room, he contorted his facial features, looking almost in pain. Hermione presumed it was meant to be a smile. She coughed to cover her titter.  
  
All eyes were immediately on her. Something flickered in Malfoy’s; then, he was moving, yanking her back into his side. She almost forgot her charade—she almost elbowed him—but then he began to pat at her hair, going, she could only guess, for soothing, and she quite forgot about forgetting.    
  
“Gentlemen,” said Malfoy, all authority now, “my bride is just recovering from a serious illness, as you know. Another time, perhaps?”  
  
One reporter stood, but not before elbowing his friend. “Leave the newlyweds alone, eh!”  
  
Malfoy’s fingers dug painfully into arm. Hermione’s face felt fit to crack.    
  
The other one, the blasted one with the camera, stood as well. He waved it in their direction, smiling jovially. “A picture then? For the article? We’ll get out of your hair straightaway after that.”  
  
Hermione made herself tilt her head in Malfoy’s direction and somehow managed to smile even wider, all the while memorizing this reporter’s face. She’d have his job. This was necessary, she reminded herself. She had to pose with the git.  
  
“Oh, come on,” chuckled the other. "Don't be shy!"  
  
Malfoy stiffened and, standing as close as she was, she felt his shudder. She also felt him suck in a deep breath, but then he was angling, turning, and his fingers were digging into her chin. She was about to tell him where to shove it when his horrid pasty face loomed alarmingly close; she barely had enough time to suck in a panicked gasp before his puckered lips landed squarely on hers. Promptly, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of house elves and—and—  
  
His hand fell to her bum, giving it a good squeeze, just as the camera’s flash went off. Thankfully, Malfoy had kept his blasted mouth shut. It made the urge to spit less overwhelming as she shook hands with the reporters, as she watched them do the same with Malfoy. Then they were gone, leaving Hermione alone with her—Lord— _husband_.  
  
There was a pause. Hermione had prepared a speech but was unsure how to launch into it. Squaring her shoulders, she faced him.  
  
“Malfoy—”  
  
“Not here.” He sounded cross with her. He sounded bloody  _furious_. “There are ears everywhere, Granger. My room. One of the damned elves will show you the way.”  
  
He spun around, a blur of black, and stalked off before she could offer so much as a peep, slamming the door shut in her face presumably for maximum impact. That bugger!  
  
**   
  
Draco Malfoy had landed squarely in a boatload of trouble. Never before had he been so happy that his parents had left for the weekend, celebrating his upcoming nuptials to Astoria Greengrass. Pacing, he bit off a panicked chuckle. Merlin, he’d called in the fucking  _press_.  
  
Oh, it had been such a plan! Of course, he’d had the occasional twinge of conscience—he wasn’t a complete monster, after all—but it had all just snowballed. The thing was done, he was married to her; he’d planned on spreading the news right away, only he hadn’t heard so much as a peep to suggest she’d actually succumbed to whatever was plaguing her. This, of course, had been troubling. However, he was a hopeful bloke; he hadn’t thought there was any way she would survive the weekend, hence the reporters. He’d spread the news, she’d pass, his parents would come home, lectures would be had, and he would mourn her right into his own personal singledom. He’d had a  _plan_.  
  
And what had she been thinking, barging into the Manor and ruining it all? Now there was photographic  _evidence_ , and that blasted story. Swearing, he pushed his hands through his hair and tried to think. What to do, what to do? Surely, marriage to a money hungry bint like Astoria was preferable to marriage with Granger. Then again, there was no earthly way Granger meant to  _stay_  married to him, which just meant he was going to have to do some damage control. What in the hell was he going to tell the  _Prophet_? The beginnings of a migraine rippled over his scalp. And she'd played along! It made no sense.  
  
Now she was up in his room, doing Merlin knew what. It was all too much. For a moment, Draco debated calling in the cavalry. Pansy and Zabini had gotten him into this mess; they would get him out. Only there wasn’t time, was there? He had hours probably before the story was ready to run. Here he was, wasting time pacing around like a lunatic. No, it was best to face her. Gritting his teeth, he stomped out of the study and up a flight of stairs.  
  
He found her seated on his bed, posture ramrod straight and face pinched into the prissiest expression he’d ever had the misfortune of seeing. Merlin, he’d forgotten how much he  _loathed_  her. Still, she wasn’t exactly ugly—her robes, though unfortunately red, were not of abysmal quality. She’d pulled her awful mess of hair back into a bun, which made her look like a matron, but it was to the positive that he didn’t have to stare at a fluffy rat’s nest. To top it all off, she looked so  _healthy_. The tiniest part of him was relieved, but it was best not to dwell on that. Glaring at him, she scrunched her face and opened her mouth, apparently about to launch into a tirade. Though he doubtlessly deserved it, he held up a hand.  
  
“No, don’t,” he protested. Though the words tasted foul, he made himself say, “I owe you an apology. I behaved… well, I behaved like a right bastard back at the inn, and I truly do regret it.” More than he could ever say, honestly.  
  
Granger didn’t look at all mollified. Crossing her arms, she said, “I ought to hex you. Or slap you. Or  _sue_  you.”  
  
“Yes to all of the above,” he replied, waving a hand at her dismissively. “However, no real harm’s been done. I got you your pathetic little friends, didn’t I? And my own personal medi-witch. You might wish to thank me, come to think of it.”  
  
“I did not  _need_  your own personal anything, you dimwit,” she snipped. “Hardly anyone dies of the flu, you should know. Also, I would rather bite off my own tongue than thank you.”  
  
He made a gesture that he hoped said  _please, proceed then_. When it didn’t look like she was about to, he sighed and wished she’d go away. He hadn't really seen her in years, barring the other night, and now here she was in his bedroom giving him morality lectures.    
  
“Look here, Granger. It really isn’t a big deal. I’ll pay off anyone who knows, we’ll get it annulled, and we’ll just tell the  _Prophet_  that this morning’s antics were nothing more than a prank. Sound peachy?”  
  
Granger cocked her head and tapped her chin, looking pensive. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was  _enjoying_  this, though he can’t fathom why. On the bright side, she didn’t seem that angry. Which, come to think of it, was unusual.  
  
“I don’t think so,” she said after a very long moment of consideration.  
  
Draco blinked. “Why not?” There was something startlingly  _evil_  in her eyes.  
  
She smiled to match and leaned forward, giving him what he presumed was her I-mean-business stare. His stomach plummeted. Was it too late to make her honestly dead? It had to have been awhile since his house elves had to dispose of a body. He couldn’t, being a responsible bloke, let them grow rusty.  
  
“I have a proposition for you,” said Granger, eyes positively alight.  
  
Draco wasn’t going to like this. Sighing again, he went to his window seat, sat down, and raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Well, carry on. I haven’t got all night.” Perhaps he could chuck her out the window. Perhaps he could--  
  
“I propose we stay married.”    
  
The world stopped spinning. Spots clouded Draco’s vision. That familiar feeling of being suffocated landed heavily on his chest. Invisible hands tightened around his throat. He dug his fingers into the fabric of the window seat and fought for composure.  
  
“Beg pardon?” Surely, he’d misheard her.  
  
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.” She snapped that, breaking character from the smooth negotiator she was clearly trying to be. After a pause, she added, “Not forever, of course. For a while. I have something you want and you have something I want. I’m sure you’ll see it as a win win, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco highly doubted that. Trying not to panic, he snarled, “Unlikely. I’ll force you to sign those papers.”  
  
“Unlikely.” Her smile dripped satisfaction, evil witch. “You want freedom, I understand that. I guarantee that after I get what I want, I will leave you. You can be as heartbroken as you like. That will buy you some time.”  
  
“Malfoys don’t get left,” he informed her, sticking his nose up. Curiosity made him ask, “And what do you want? The glory of the Malfoy name?” Not that he was considering because this was  _Granger_. His skin was almost crawling.  
  
She nodded. “Precisely. Additionally, I require funding for a project I've been working on.”  
  
“You want me to fund your barmy house elf project?” That startled a laugh out of him. Women were all the same. Still, he’d thought Granger would be above chasing him for money. It was a strangely disappointing realization. “It will be a cold day in hell before that happens.”  
  
“I think you’ll find it won’t be.” She was confident in a way he hated. “I think you’ll find yourself most amenable to my plan. All I require is three months. At the end of it, you will help me host a charity ball. You will convince your friends to donate to my cause, which will set me up to be free of you. You will do all of this, and then I will annul this sham of a marriage without exposing the terrible thing you did to me.”  
  
Did to her? Here she was, actually suggesting that he tie himself to her for three months—an eternity in his eyes—and she still had the nerve to blame  _him_? Draco felt an overwhelming urge to hyperventilate. This was all just too much. Malfoys weren’t forced into anything, particularly marriages to those of lesser birth. Just who did she think she was?  
  
“No,” he said.  
  
“Yes,” she replied, rising. Stalking over to him, she had the nerve to shove her finger in his face. “Otherwise, I swear I will see you in Azkaban.”  
  
He swatted at her finger. “Azkaban doesn’t scare me.”  
  
“Oh, I think it does. Furthermore, I know you didn’t act alone. The only people you know with the brains to carry this off would be Parkinson and Zabini. Oh, perhaps Parkinson will escape to weather the scandal, but I know Zabini is working his way up the legal ladder at the Ministry. They do not look kindly on dodgy paperwork. I will have his job for this, Malfoy. I will see him destroyed. I will see you destroyed.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Unless you agree, of course. Then, in three months, this can all just go away.”  
  
She was absolutely diabolical. She was absolutely  _right_. It would do Zabini in, the scandal. He would come out of it the worst of the three. Draco might have been many things, but he liked to consider himself a good friend. Granger had him by the balls and she knew it. Draco swallowed a strangled breath.  
  
“I can't,” he croaked. Then, regaining an ounce of composure, he added, “And how, without exposing us, are you going to get it annulled?”  
  
Granger waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll say the marriage was never consummated. It will be the truth.”  
  
Hope gleamed wickedly. Thank Merlin for one thing and one thing only! He almost chuckled, he was so relieved. Smiling at her, he pointed out, “No one will believe you. No one will ever believe that, with my reputation, I didn’t sleep with my own wife.”  
  
“I’ll tell them you couldn’t,” she contradicted.  
  
Ha! Like anyone would believe that either.    
  
Before he could point that out, she added, “Don’t tell me no one will believe it. I do remember gossip about one witch last year.” She raised her eyebrow, looking pointedly at his lap.  
  
Draco practically choked on his tongue. “ _One_  time! And I’ll have you know I was very inebriated.”  
  
“One time is all I need.” Granger shrugged. “So, what say you? Is it Azkaban for you and ruin for your friends, or are we going to do this my way?”  
  
Was she actually  _blackmailing_  him? She looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. Draco glared up at her, hating her very existence.    
  
“Malfoy brides must live at the Manor,” he told her, certain that would get her. “We’ll have our own wing. Very cozy.”  
  
“Fine.” Determination, thy name was Granger.  
  
This was too much. Draco vowed to never do another thing without thinking it through. His parents were going to murder him. He was going to be the laughing stock of respectable society for  _supporting_  crazy Granger and her stupid ideas.    
  
“Your friends won’t let you do this.” Harry Potter to the rescue! Draco would be forever grateful.   
  
“I am my own person.” She tipped her chin.  
  
Grasping at straws, he threw out, “Weasley won’t have you after it.”  
  
Ah, the chink in her armour. Granger actually flinched. So, not as brave as she was acting. Perhaps intimidation was the key? Anything to get him out of it. Pushing up off the window seat, he stalked over to her, invading her personal space.  
  
“What if I won’t?” he asked, making his voice softer than his internal dismay felt like allowing. Truly, he could throttle her.  
  
She blinked and took a step back. Draco took a step forward and another, until her back hit the wall. Placing his palms against it, he crowded even closer. Her chest hit his. Their legs touched. Removing one hand from the wall, he swallowed his disgust and touched her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. Granger, ever stalwart, froze and refused to do so much as cringe. Merlin, she was infuriating. Dropping his hand, he traced the side of her breast and her waist, settling his fingers in a caress against her hip.    
  
“Won’t what?” she squeaked.    
  
“Agree,” he drawled, lowering his head to the crook of her neck. She smelled of something floral, something disturbingly feminine, which he hadn’t strictly been expecting. He pressed his mouth to her pulse point. The sacrifices he was having to make! “About consummation, that is.”  
  
She was soft in all the right places, delightfully small and womanly. He felt the beginnings of a reaction that had everything to do with the fact that she was female and nothing to do with the fact that she was Granger. It was surprisingly distracting. Blackmail and underhanded dealings always had gotten him all hot and bothered.  
  
Somehow, Granger managed to get her hands up between their bodies. Placing her palms flat on his chest, she pushed hard. He let her go, sending a smarmy smile at her retreating back.  
  
“I won’t let you,” she said stubbornly. Then, shaking her head, she seemed to remember her speech. “It won’t be a total loss. Marrying me might win your family back some of the respect it lost during the war. It can’t harm your reputation at any rate.”  
  
“I highly doubt that.”    
  
“Well.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, staring him down. Accordingly, he broke out in a cold sweat. “What do you say, Malfoy? We’re wasting time here.”  
  
What did he say? She did underhanded particularly well. He’d underestimated her. He’d done an incredibly stupid thing. Pushing a hand through his hair, he thought hard about options. This would get rid of Astoria, which was to the good. His parents likely wouldn’t disown him, if he survived telling them. It wasn’t like he’d have to spend any  _time_  with Granger. Sure, being married to her and supporting house elves was humiliating, but it  _was_  better than Azkaban and ruining Zabini. He wouldn’t consummate the union. There would be no risk of halfblooded heirs. Three months realistically wasn't  _that_  long; he could make them long for her, as payback.  
  
Feeling like he was signing his own death warrant, Draco said, “We’ll think of another reason to annul it other than your smear campaign.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“You will live in the Manor as required and not do anything unusually humiliating.”  
  
She coloured at that, all anger. “Fine.”  
  
“You will be behave as expected of a Malfoy bride.” She looked like she had something to say to that but he held up a hand. “You will not force me to endure the company of your insufferable friends.”  
  
“Nor will you.” She paused. “You will agree to help with my cause and the charity ball. You will introduce me to your acquaintances. You will act as though this is a real marriage in public. You will agree to end this arrangement in three months time.”  
  
Paying the price of folly was a terrible thing to do. Hating himself, he stuck a hand in her direction. After a moment, she folded her fingers around it, giving it a very masculine shake.    
  
“Granger,” he said, listening to the awful sound of his heart pounding. “I do.”  
  
“I do as well,” she said swiftly, this time without vomiting immediately after. Before Draco could get any ideas, she narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare kiss the bride."


	4. The Wrong House

_“Do you know what it means to come home at night to a woman who'll give you a little love, a little affection, a little tenderness? It means you're in the wrong house, that's what it means.”_

  
\- Henry Youngman

  
  
Draco was and had always been a big fan of exits. Therefore, he instructed his erstwhile bride to stay the hell put until their wing was prepared for her, turned on his tail, and slammed the door to his bedroom shut in her smug little face. It chafed a little to leave her alone amongst his things; he had to admit to a secret desire that perhaps, if he left her long enough, she’d get bored and forget the whole thing. Leaving his nastiest most dourly tempered house elf to stand guard at the door, he stomped back downstairs and closeted himself in the study. Merlin, how he needed a drink. Tempting though the thought was, he went instead to the fireplace where he threw in a handful of dust, stuck his head in, and barked, “Pansy Parkinson.”  
  
The Floo Network connected him thusly to a grate in Pansy’s bedroom; unbelievably, this had only resulted in an awkward appearance once. Currently, she was lounging on her bed, flipping through the pages of a magazine that Draco couldn’t recognize. She gave a bit of a start at the appearance of his face in the flames but hid it quickly behind an arched eyebrow.  
  
“Do I owe you my condolences?” she inquired, setting aside her magazine.  
  
“More than you can ever know,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Fancy popping over for a few minutes?”  
  
She came shortly, stepping through the fireplace with absolute grace. Smirking, she asked, “And when is the funeral?”  
  
“Mine, do you mean?” Running a hand through his hair, he went to the liquor cabinet. If he could not be free and single, he meant to be married and drunk. “She’s diabolical, Pans. I think congratulations are in order.”  
  
There was a moment, and then Pansy snorted. He didn’t have to turn around to see the glee on her face; he knew her well enough to know that she delighted in other people’s pain. Merlin help him, she’d always been a bit of a bitch.  
  
“You’re serious?” she asked, obviously trying not to snicker.  
  
“She’s blackmailing me,” he admitted lowly, hating himself and Granger really quite equally in that moment. Taking a deep breath, he told Pansy the whole story.  
  
When he was done, Pansy was, as expected, out and out laughing at him. In fact, she was having a hard time holding the glass he’d gotten her steady, so great was her mirth. Draco wished to hex her. Draco wished to hex himself.  
  
“What should I do?” he asked. As an afterthought, he added, “Stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”  
  
“Oh, on the contrary, Draco! It might be one of the most hilarious things I’ve ever heard. Quite apropos too, really.” She took a second to sober herself, though the light didn’t leave her eyes. “I see no way out of it, quite frankly. I say make the best of it. If you’re so intent on her not using your… uhh… inadequacies in the bedroom to win her annulment, I say shag her silly. You might as well get some fun out of—”  
  
“Malfoy!”  
  
Granger’s voice boomed through the Manor with such strength that Draco swore the glass in his hand shook. Surely, the hair on the back of his neck rose to attention. Shuddering, he narrowed his eyes at Pansy.  
  
“Would  _you_  shag that?”  
  
Pansy opened her mouth to reply to that, but Granger cut her off. “Mal _foy_!” There was a moment, and then, just as high and shrill as before, she shouted, “Darling!”  
  
Pansy blinked, clearly surprised by the force of Granger’s anger. Smirking, she rose, walking back to the fireplace.    
  
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, trying to catch her arm.  
  
“Oh yes, I do,” she smiled. “Happy honeymoon!”  
  
Before he could move to stop her, his slippery friend was back in the fireplace and gone, leaving him alone to face his harpy of a bride. Counting to ten, Draco waited for the inevitable, and it came not two minutes later. Granger barged into the study with the grace and dignity of a stampeding elephant, banging the door off the wall.  
  
“Be careful,” he hissed.  
  
“I will not!” Two spots of absolute fury had turned her cheeks rosy; her hair was a mess. He couldn’t believe he had married such a nightmare woman, dying or not. “Why, Malfoy, are there strange men in my flat?”  
  
“They are moving your things. I  _told_  you that. Furthermore, how do you know who is in your flat? I have—”  
  
“Yes, yes, that terrible little guard outside my door. There are  _ways_ , you dolt. I am not your prisoner and I will not stay locked in your room while you send men to ransack my belongings! I’m perfectly capable of packing myself. I have confidential papers there, valuable pieces of information on house elves, and if one of those men even so much as plagiarizes what I’ve done so far—”  
  
“No one  _cares_  about house elves, Granger.” He rolled his eyes at her, suddenly feeling on the verge of a colossal migraine. “And you are not to run around the Manor like a two year old, screaming at the top of your lungs. In fact, while you’re here, you might as well take a seat.”  
  
Like a godsend, Draco remembered something out of nowhere. It was as if a giant calm settled over him. Granger had, after all, agreed to behave like a Malfoy bride; it was time to let her know just what that meant. Granger, who had not taken a seat at all, was still ranting at him, but he tuned her out with ease, walking to his desk and ringing a tiny bell. A house elf appeared promptly, startling Granger into blessed silence.  
  
“The Bridal Manifesto, if you will,” ordered Draco, smirking at Granger.  
  
“The what?” she demanded.  
  
Was that panic in her tone? He watched her with glee for the two seconds it took for the house elf to return with his book. Retreating behind the desk, Draco sat, propping up his feet. Granger was turning the most alarming shade of purple, and he hadn’t even begun yet.  
  
“Thank you. That is all,” he said to the house elf. To Granger, he motioned again at a chair. She glowered and crossed her arms.  
  
“Very well, remain standing.” Opening the book, he made a big deal out of clearing his throat. “This is a book—”  
  
“I  _know_  that.”  
  
“—written generations ago to ease the stress caused by transitioning into a new family. Think of them as rules, Granger. You like rules, don’t you?”  
  
She looked a little apprehensive; Draco decided he didn’t need to remind her that she’d agreed to be a model bride. Glaring at him still, she stomped to her chair and plopped down, gesturing peevishly at him with her hand to continue.  
  
Draco waited a few seconds because he could. Then, clearing his throat again, he read, “‘Chapter One: On Temperament.’”  
  
“There are  _chapters_?” squeaked Granger, sounding disbelieving.  
  
“Of course. Stop interrupting.” Draco turned the page. “I will read you the highlights. ‘A Malfoy bride will always be biddable, sweet, and dignified in the company of her husband. She will not argue with him or do anything else to make him seem lesser in the eyes of his peers. She will support him in his endeavours and defer to him as the decision maker of the household.’”  
  
The spots on Granger’s cheeks grew alarmingly. Really, purple was not the most dashing colour on her.  
  
“‘A Malfoy bride will always be aware of her place. She will go out of her way to be pleasing to her husband. She will never raise her voice or speak in a manner not pleasing to him. She will—’”  
  
“When on earth was this thing written? This is positively medieval! I will not—”  
  
“‘Chapter Two: On Appearance. A Malfoy bride will always do her utmost to be pleasing on the eye. She will dress respectfully and in keeping with her station.’ There is a bit here on how you ought to dress in the bedroom, but I’ll skip over that as I enjoyed a lovely breakfast this morning that I have no wish to lose. I will also skip over the third chapter as I have no desire to ever bed you. The fourth provides information on heirs, also a moot point, but ah! The fifth! ‘Any Malfoy bride not in keeping with the guidelines provided herein will submit herself—’”  
  
“Stop this right now!” Granger pounded her hand on her knee, positively quivering with indignation. Draco thought she looked like she might want to whack him over the head with the book. He smiled at her. “If you think—”  
  
“You really should ask my permission before you speak,” he suggested helpfully. “Page twenty seven demands it.”  
  
“Your mother does not follow this. No woman follows this. I’ve  _met_  Narcissa. She seems to support this little movement called, I don’t know, women’s rights. She would never adhere to this traditional—”  
  
“You say potato,” he said, shrugging.  
  
“I say bullshit!”  
  
“Actually, you don’t. Must I read you the chapter on cussing?”  
  
Granger actually shook a little. He watched her face cloud with apoplectic rage, quite enjoying himself. She couldn’t seem to decide what to say and so ended up making an alarming noise of pure anger.    
  
“Why, you--”  
  
Draco snapped the book shut, rising. He paced around her, careful not to get into arm’s reach, and said, “Pish posh, Granger. I can be reasonable, you know. That book is claptrap. All I’m asking is that you try to control your temper and try to be reasonable. I could not send you to pack your own things. How would that look?”    
  
“Like I’m capable?” she suggested.  
  
“No, Granger. It would look like I couldn’t afford the help.   _Try_  to think like someone of wealth and this will all go just fine.”  
  
He sensed she wasn’t done with him, so he retreated, taking his drink with him. By the door, he paused to add, “Dinner’s at six sharp.” Then, for the second time that evening, he slammed a door in her face.  
  
**  
  
Hermione was beside herself with fury. After Malfoy’s departure, she’d stomped back to his rooms, where upon she was told her bridal suite was ready. The bridal suite itself was large and decorated with class—try, though she might, she couldn’t find fault with it—and her things had already been put away. She’d spent the next two hours rearranging her notes and trying to accustom Crookshanks to his new and terrible surroundings; then, a strange woman had come knocking, refusing to leave until Hermione was pinched, prodded, and all but stuffed into a new pair of robes. Now, it was five to six and she was going to have to go sit across from Malfoy in the dining hall and try not to spear him with her fork. House elves simply were not worth it.  
  
Hermione let herself into the dining room with so much grace, dignity, and decorum that she knew even Malfoy wouldn’t be able to fault her. Let him choke on that, she thought. Let him—  
  
“Darling,” he greeted, when she entered.  
  
Ugh. Pasting on a false grin, she nodded at him and seated herself to his left. Three house elves stood near the door; a moment later, the food was served. She wished they’d leave after so that she might give Malfoy a piece of her mind but they stayed, hovering at attention. Bloody traitors, especially considering she was here to  _help_  them.    
  
“How was your afternoon?” enquired Malfoy, tilting his head. He was the very picture of interest.  
  
Hermione tightened her grip on her fork. “Lovely, thank you. And yours?”  
  
“Charming. Pansy stopped by for tea. She’s sorry she missed you.”  
  
“Did she? Do be sure to tell her hello.”  
  
“Yes, of course. Did you get to enjoy the weather today?”  
  
“Yes.” It was hard not to roll her eyes at herself. “I kept the window open in my… the…  _our_  room. Did you?”  
  
“Not at all. I was very busy with many important things. I gave a very captivating lecture this afternoon on decorum, in fact.”  
  
“Did you.” Hermione grit her teeth.  
  
Malfoy’s answer was a mere tilting of his lip, but that was more than enough.    
  
Silence. Hermione forced herself to chew and swallow. The food wasn’t half bad; really, the food was delicious. She wasn’t sure whether it was polite to mention that and so she didn’t, choosing instead to smile at Malfoy with her mouth and cut him into pieces with her gaze. Oh, the things she was going to do to him when these three months were over. The things—  
  
Another house elf popped into the room, standing by Malfoy’s elbow. Merlin, how many of the creatures did the Malfoys employee? This one was holding an envelope, which he offered to her—ugh—husband. Hermione strained to see it.  
  
“Sorry to be interrupting your dinner, Master Draco,” stuttered the house elf. “Miss Sarah said it to be urgent.”  
  
Malfoy, after patting his mouth with his napkin, took the envelope and inclined his head at the house elf, who popped away as quickly as he appeared. Through narrowed eyes, she watched Malfoy read whatever was inside the envelope; watched too as a slow smile spread across his face. Curiosity flipped her stomach and made her edgy.  
  
“Anything exciting?” she asked, trying not to look obviously interested.  
  
“Hmm, you might say that.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her, running his finger along the edge of the card. “Of course, it is of no interest to you.”  
  
He was bating her. Hermione had never been able to stand that. Feeling her smile tighten, she said, “Everything that interests you interests me, sweetheart.”    
  
“I don’t think this would. Honey.”  
  
With that, he made an effort of putting the card away, but Hermione was faster. After all, it could have been from one of his horrid friends with some new fiendish plan to end her scheme. Her very  _life_  could be in danger. It was pertinent that she see it. Leaning forward, she snatched it from his fingers.  
  
“Husbands and wives share everything,” she told him inanely, flipping over the card.  
  
It was pink, that much she was quick to ascertain, and positively drenched in some sort of floral perfume. Oh, this was good. Smiling a genuine smile in Malfoy’s direction, she turned it over, although not before she saw him squirm in the corner of her eye. Good.  
  
“Honestly, Granger, that’s not—”  
  
Inside was a photograph of a naked woman, kneeling on all fours on a bed. So distracted was Hermione by the surprising sight that it took a minute or two to realize that the woman was not alone. No, there was a man behind her with his head thrown back in what appeared to be overwhelming pleasure, and that man was definitely a very naked, aroused, and busy Draco Malfoy. She watched him in the photo with absolute horror, feeling her cheeks catch on fire, as he gripped the woman’s hips, as his lips parted on a moan. Then, she dropped the card as if she’d been burned.  
  
“Oh my God,” she mumbled, darting a look at Malfoy, who was smirking. He was clothed and very proper now, but the image of his not clothed and not at all proper self was probably burned on her brain for the rest of time. Again, she said, “Oh my God.”  
  
“We had an appointment tonight to discuss affairs,” he said quite levelly, the very picture of normalcy. “I will, of course, be breaking it. Pity.” He dabbed at his mouth again.  
  
Hermione, in her head, saw the photo again. Looking at the house elves, she whispered, “That’s perverted, Malfoy.”  
  
“The photos were her idea,” he whispered back. “Don’t be such a prude. Fine specimen of a woman, isn’t she?”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Yes, we’ve established that.”  
  
Sucking in a deep breath, Hermione pushed back from the table. “I’m not feeling well,” she announced. “I will be in our rooms.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” said Malfoy, looking very satisfied. “I won't keep you waiting.”  
  
**  
  
Upon reaching the bridal suite, Hermione stomped to the bedroom, locking the door behind her. She needed a moment’s peace. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she spotted Crookshanks dozing on the bed and went to him, collapsing with her face in the soft fur of his back. His tail twitched and she waited for a swipe from his paw; after a moment, Crookshanks put his head back down.  
  
This was all just too much. She knew, of course, that she’d bombarded him this morning with this arrangement, but then he’d bombarded her too. Why couldn’t she have just died at the inn? Everything would have been so much easier than this, than having to endure one more second on Malfoy’s turf. She missed Harry and she missed Ron.  
  
The thought of Ron deepened her scowl. He was so very thick-witted. Honestly, did he not mean to come and save her from all of this? Perhaps he would win a Muggle lottery and then she wouldn’t need Malfoy and his stupid money. Wait, that was not right. Perhaps  _she_ would win and... bother, never mind.    
  
“House elves, Hermione,” she muttered to herself. “You must save the house elves.”  
  
It was not a comforting thought. Groaning, she sat up, ignoring how soft and luxurious the bed was. Surely, it probably cost more than her flat. Such flamboyant wealth was really rather a bit of insult. Sniffing, she ran her hand over the duvet; it was thick, fluffy, and wrapped in an ivory cover. Going to bed was appealing, but it couldn’t have yet been seven.  
  
Rising, she exited the bedroom, went down a short hall, and found the bathroom she’d already discovered earlier. She’d have a bath, that’s what she would do. Then, she’d read for a while and go to bed, hopefully before Malfoy remembered he was meant to join her. Shuddering at that, she sniffed the various bath oils, nearly deciding on a floral one before remembering that card and gagging a little. Jasmine it was, then.  
  
One hour later, she was feeling right as rain, or thereabouts. Two hours later, she’d re-categorized her notes one more time, and thought of some new points of research. Three hours later, she pretended she wasn’t at all antsy and read the first few chapters of her new novel. Four hours later, at fifteen past minute, she unlocked the door and made a beeline back for the bed. Settling herself on the right side, she clenched her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep.   
  
It was not to be. At eleven thirty, Crookshanks barrelled out of nowhere and catapulted up onto the headboard off Hermione’s back. At quarter to the hour, he came, opening the door loudly and quickly lighting nearly every single light. Keeping her eyes shut, she listened to him sigh and crack his back—disgusting—and then the left side of the bed dipped.  
  
“What are you doing?” she demanded, sitting up.  
  
Malfoy started a little, or at least pretended to; there was no way she could have slept through the flood of light. “Composing a symphony,” he said dryly.  
  
What he was actually doing was tugging off his shoes. Narrowing her eyes, Hermione said, “You can’t sleep here. In the bed.”  
  
“I can and I will,” he informed her. “This was  _your_  idea, remember. Do you want it to look real or not?”  
  
“It will look perfectly real from the floor, thank you.”  
  
Shrugging, Malfoy rose. Hermione, bewildered, knew there was no way she could have won that easily. Watching him suspiciously, she saw him go to the foot of the bed, where he cracked his back again.  
  
“Stop that,” she said, pulling a face.  
  
Malfoy shot her a look over his shoulder and she saw that he appeared to be barely holding his temper in check. Then, he looked away, pulling his shirt over his head. Hermione scowled at his back, which was finely muscled if one was in the habit of noticing such things; then, he dropped his trousers. Hermione, gasping, covered her eyes.  
  
“Malfoy, I’ve about had it with you today,” she told him, feeling her own temper rise. “Put your trousers back on.”  
  
“No.”  
  
When she dared to open her eyes just the slightest, she saw that he had turned around and was facing her with crossed arms. He looked ready to do battle. Thank God the foot-board was covering all of his essential bits or Hermione could never have maintained her glower.  
  
“What do you mean ‘no’?” she hissed.  
  
“I mean no. N. O.” He smiled at her, if one could call such an evil expression a smile. “I sleep in the nude, Granger. It’s better for the health, don’t you know. Definitely better than what you're wearing. Are those  _cats_  sleeping on clouds? That doesn't even make sense.” He tittered.  
  
Hermione was flummoxed. Trying not to look at the great expanse of incredibly pale skin hoisted upon her poor innocent eyes, she said, “You do not sleep in the nude. You do not—”  
  
“I sleep in the nude or I sleep in the bed.” Up went an eyebrow. “Come now, we’re not savages. I’ll even let your beast of a cat stay.”  
  
“Crookshanks is not a beast.” His shoulder seemed like a safe place to look; she directed her comment to the vicinity of his collarbone. “And I have had it with your sexual harassment today.”  
  
Malfoy snorted, turning his back on her again. He looked like he meant to walk away, so Hermione closed her eyes as a pre-emptive measure. She heard him go to his wardrobe, heard the sound of rustling fabric. That had to be a good thing. Moments later, the bed dipped away from her and the covers shifted. On the inside, Hermione cringed. Well, fine. Perhaps she cringed on the outside too.  
  
“I told you not to look at that card,” Malfoy was saying, fluffing his pillow rather obnoxiously. Hermione wasn’t sure how one went about being obnoxious with pillow fluffing, but there it was all the same. “In fact, I do believe I said—”  
  
“You  _knew_  I’d look.” She fluffed her pillow harder than he had, just because she could. Thankfully, the bed was big enough that she could lie down without having to be anywhere near touching him. “You knew as soon as you said—”  
  
“Merlin, even when I’m doing you a favour, I’m in the wrong.”    
  
Extending his wand, he flicked out the lights. Being in the dark with Malfoy felt excruciatingly awkward. He settled on his left side, presumably so as not to face her; Hermione settled on her right. She could hear him breathing, though that at least he didn’t seem to be doing obnoxiously. Again, the bed dipped. God, he couldn’t possibly mean to sleep on his back, with his arm so near to her own back. In fact, she was relatively certain she could feel his body heat. That made her grimace. Near their feet, Crookshanks walked in a circle before settling.  
  
“Of course you’re in the wrong,” snapped Hermione. “This whole thing is your fault. You’re meant to be in the wrong for quite some time, I’d think.”  
  
“Ahh, the proverbial dog house.”  
  
She rather thought Malfoy sounded like he couldn’t give less of a fuck. Exasperated, she rolled onto her back as well, so as better to argue with him.  
  
“Flowers will not get you out of this,” she informed him.  
  
“No,” he drawled. “That would be my money and my house elves, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“At least you’re realistic about what you have going for you. That’s a good start. Certainly, you can’t rely on—”  
  
“Sarah has no complaints.”  
  
Ugh. The image on the card flashed through Hermione’s mind again. It was at times like this that she wished her memory wasn’t quite as spectacular. Grinding the heel of her hand into her eye, she groaned, “Oh yes,  _Sarah_. Should I expect many more of her kind to pop up?”  
  
“What exactly do you mean ‘her kind’? She’s quite respected, you prudish witch. And quite discreet too, I’ll have you know.” Malfoy paused. “Then, she is also married, so that goes rather without saying.”  
  
“And with every passing moment, I grow to respect you even more.”  
  
Malfoy shifted, turning on his side to face her. “Married women are the way to go, Granger. It’s how you don’t wind up married yourself.”  
  
Hermione tilted her head and rolled her eyes for him to see. “How is that working out for you?”  
  
“Well, what about you? Should I expect any lovelorn bachelors showing up on my doorstep?”  
  
It was amazing how he could sound so sincere and look so mocking. “As a matter of fact, yes,” said Hermione. Lies! Lies!  
  
He had the presence of mind not to push it. Truthfully, he yawned and Hermione grabbed the opportunity to roll over so as not to have to face him. After a moment, he did as well.  
  
“Try to keep your hands off me,” he said a moment later. “I detest cuddling.”  
  
“But, sweetheart,” she cooed, “it’s our wedding night!”  
  
“I know. In fact, the sight of you in those dashing flannel pyjamas has--”  
  
Not caring what he was about to say, Hermione kicked her foot backwards, landing a relatively good hit on his shin. Then, she scooted as far away as the bed made possible, heaving a good share of the blankets with her.   
  
“Good night, darling,” he said.    
  
“Sweet dreams,” she said back, making her tone singsong.    
  
Then, trying to ignore the sound of his breathing, Hermione shut her eyes and prayed for a moment three months from now, when she was going to say goodbye to Draco Malfoy forever.


	5. Fighting With Strangers

_“Marriage is nature's way of keeping us from fighting with strangers.”_

  
\- Alan King

  
  
Hermione was having the most pleasant dream. In it, she and Ron, who had miraculously came to his senses, had spent the night together in the most luxuriously elegant bed she’d ever encountered. Currently, Ron was spooned snugly around her, one arm lazily resting over her waist. Hermione had never felt more safe, more protected.  
  
More interesting still was this: apparently what she had heard about men in the morning was true. Smirking, she shifted backwards, pressing herself against him. Ron reached his hand out, entwining their fingers, and said on a sleepy moan, “Mmm, Sarah.”  
  
Wait. Blinking open her eyes, she saw that most of her dream was true, save for the fact that the arm wrapped around her was devoid of freckles, which meant it was not Ron’s, which also meant the… the _thing_ pushed against her bum was not Ron’s, which meant—  
  
Making a face, Hermione mouthed, “Gross” and gagged a little, though there was no one around for the effect. It was far too awkward contemplating waking Malfoy; as such, she tried to extricate herself as sneakily as possible without either throwing up or disturbing him. This was not how she liked to wake up. This was not even in the same galaxy as how she liked to wake up. This was wrong and disgusting and really rather just beyond words.  
  
Happily, she had some success initially. Moving as fluidly and subtly as possible, she managed to shift to her back and get one leg positioned to sneak her over the edge of the bed. In fact, she could taste the glory that was her get away when his hand, so innocently draped over her waist, came to life and locked on her arm.  
  
“Too early,” he groaned, rolling onto his back and yanking her after him. Caught off guard, she went much too easily.  
  
Startled, Hermione examined her new position. At least like this, she couldn’t feel _that_ , which was a definite improvement. It was so very wrong to have to even think about him having one of those, not to mention the amount she’d been forced to think of it yesterday. She shuddered, annoyed to realize that now to escape she would have to completely roll over. Or escape backwards. Escape, however, she would. Determined, she knit her brow and plotted.  
  
Only Malfoy, newly positioned on his back, did not settle. Instead, he caught her hand and placed it on his stomach, trapping her fingers under the weight of his. His stomach, truthfully, was surprisingly firm. Distracted, Hermione blinked. She couldn’t wake him, she just couldn’t. He would make some sort of inappropriate crack, he would do something to make it all worse, and it was bad enough with just her knowing, bad enough—  
  
His hand started to move, pushing hers down his stomach with definite intent.  
  
Shit! Realizing his destination immediately, she locked her arm muscles and resisted with all she had in her.  
  
“Come on, Sarah,” he insisted, voice heavy with sleep. “Just a bit.”  
  
“Malfoy,” she snapped, a little panicked.   
  
His mouth quirked up, just as her pinky brushed his waistband. “Hmm, Granger.”  
  
And what the fuck was that? Bewildered, she managed to turn her hand just a bit, pinching his stomach as hard as she possibly could.  
  
“Ouch! Fuck!” He came awake on a start, slamming his hand almost painfully down on hers, which truthfully probably hadn’t felt so great on his not-at-all-impressively-firm stomach either. There was an awful moment that stretched forever. Then, he said, “What exactly are you doing?”  
  
His stomach muscles jumped under her palm. There was just so much skin, so much pale, bare, should-never-have-been-seen-by-her Malfoy skin. He was so mind bogglingly pasty, and having a slightly well muscled stomach wasn’t going to help him there. She’d been tricked into marrying a bloody vampire.  
  
“Unhand me!” she demanded, cheeks heating.  
  
“No. Not until you explain why you’re trying to molest me in my sleep.”  
  
“Molest _you_?! No! Just no!” she spluttered, before narrowing her eyes. “You said my name.”  
  
“And you what?” questioned Malfoy, staring at her suspiciously. This close, his eyes were the oddest things Hermione had ever seen. Truly, she didn’t know how anyone found him remotely attractive. “Decided to stick your hand down my pyjamas?”  
  
“No! _You_ \--”  
  
A knock on the door shut her up.  
  
“Shit,” muttered Malfoy, which were Hermione’s sentiments exactly.  
  
At last, he released her hand. Freedom, sweet, blessed freedom, was almost hers, but then he shifted abruptly, yanking her half on top of him and definitely closer. Too close, in fact. Her cheek smacked his pale, bare, should-never-have-been-seen-by-her chest, and her _hand_ \--oh God, oh God, oh _God_ \--became instantly trapped in a mess of her thigh and her weight and his… his… Malfoy hissed. Instantly, she jerked her hand back but he was holding her too tightly. Perhaps if she wiggled it, she could squeeze it out past her thigh. Perhaps—  
  
“Stop moving,” he ordered, voice tight and… odd.  
  
“I will not! I have to… _Oh_.”   
  
She stilled her hand immediately, face on fire. Resolutely, she tried not to notice anything related to size or… or girth. Or length. Or anything. She was going to cut off her hand when this was over. It would never be clean again. This was the worst morning she’d ever had to endure, and she hadn’t even had any tea yet.  
  
“Oh,” echoed Malfoy, exhaling. He waited a beat, fingers pressed almost painfully into her side, and then said, “Come in.”  
  
The door opened and in came Petunia, the first house elf Hermione had met here. She spotted them, colouring instantly. Hermione didn’t want to look, but the alternative was burying her face in Malfoy’s chest. Awful dilemma.  
  
“Your morning paper, Master Draco,” she said, ears twitching.  
  
“Just set it down please,” he instructed.  
  
Oh God, the morning paper, with _that_ picture of Malfoy kissing her and pinching her arse. The truth was fully out there now. It made Hermione want to groan. Huffing, she gave into the inevitable, hiding as best she could. Malfoy, the git, dropped a kiss on top of her head. She didn’t have to see his face to see his sickeningly lovey-dovey smile.  
  
“Master and Mistress Malfoy is home,” Petunia squeaked, seemingly unsure where to look. “They be wishing Petunia tells you to come right away.”  
  
Malfoy’s hand, which had been doing inappropriately sweet things in her hair, stilled. Because of where her head had unfortunately been forced to rest, Hermione heard his heart rate climb. Shocking that he had one. As for her, she held her breath.   
  
Amazingly, Malfoy’s tone betrayed nothing. “Thank you, Petunia. We’ll be down shortly.”  
  
The moment Petunia closed the door, Malfoy released Hermione, who wasted no time scooting backwards. Glowering at him, she wiped her hand on the bedspread.  
  
“We are going to be killed,” he said, exhaling loudly through his nose.  
  
“No,” she replied, clambering out of the bed and away from him. “ _You_ are about to be killed. If your parents don’t, I might.” She wiped her hand again, disgusted.  
  
“Masochistic witch,” he muttered, loping past her to go to the bathroom. He paused before disappearing, shooting her such a confused and revolted look that she just knew he thought she’d done all this on purpose.  
  
Hermione mimicked him, stomping over to her wardrobe. This morning was already too awful to contemplate and so she vowed to forget it. She was rather good at repressing, really. Really, she was very good indeed.  
  
What did one wear to watch one’s new husband be murdered by her in-laws? Black? Contemplatively, she pushed through her robes, feeling picky and flustered. Merlin, the things her hand had touched. And now she had to go meet his bloody parents, whom she’d already met and _loathed_ ; she felt perfectly stuck between panic and embarrassment. Where the devil had Crookshanks gotten off too?   
  
Blue. One wore blue to watch one’s new husband get murdered. After all, those robes were her nicest after her red set, and red just felt clichéd. Staring suspiciously at the hallway that led to the bathroom, she changed at lightning speed, struggling with buttons and fear and humiliation. Where on earth was that ghastly woman from yesterday who’d helped her dress? How was she to do her hair when—  
  
But no. That was a spoiled thought. Hermione Granger had done her hair every damned day of her life and this morning was no different. She went to the mirror, harrumphing at what she saw. It was going to be a long day indeed.   
  
**  
  
Draco took his time in the bathroom, both to delay the inevitable and to avoid Granger for a few blessed minutes. He contemplated actually having a bath—how long would his cursed wife and impatient parents wait?—but ended up having a mere think on the rim of the tub. A mere think did not leave him in a pleasant mood; by the time he left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom, his mood had soured significantly, killing any pleasure he might have felt earlier.  
  
Or it had, that was, until he caught sight of Granger. She was sitting on her side of the bed, clearly trying to avoid looking at him. In fact, the mere sound of his approach darkened the colour of her cheeks. How very delightful. It was almost sweet. Almost. He was in no way, shape, or form used to women capable of blushing.  
  
“Morning, lover,” he teased, stepping by her to find something to wear. He preferred to do his morning routine in privacy, but was unsure where to send her. Things in the Manor would have to be altered for her safety; he couldn’t in all fairness send her to his parents alone.   
  
Granger’s face screwed up in a way that he was growing all too familiar with. It was like a tic she was developing around him, now that he thought about it. The more romantic and lovely he grew, the more Granger twitched all over the place. He smiled at her just to see her jaw clench.  
  
“You’re in an awfully good mood considering,” she said, looking at him suspiciously.   
  
For the first time, Draco noticed her robes, which would do, and her hair, which was in some sort of haphazard bun. She looked like McGonagall, only with wild curls beyond control. Panic crashed through him. This was never going to work. His parents and the whole sodding world were never going to see women like Sarah and then women like Granger and imagine for one second that he could fancy both.   
  
Granger didn’t seem to notice his critique. After she stopped twitching at him, she narrowed her eyes and observed, “You were in the bathroom for an awfully long time.”  
  
That threw him for a moment. Sending her a bizarre look, he went to his own wardrobe, browsing through it without much interest. By the time he’d chosen his standard outfit, he realized she’d meant it as a comment on his mood, which was not as good as she thought, and earlier, which was not as good as she feared.  
  
Still, for her sake, he said, “I took care of business, if that’s what you’re implying” with a patented lecherous grin. This was a lie, of course; the thought of his parents and his impending doom had frankly killed any earlier enjoyment.   
  
Granger, who he had been expecting to blush, promptly blanched. “We’re never going to speak of this again, Malfoy, so help me God. I’ll—”  
  
“Oh, _relax_.” He was much too tired and on edge to argue with her, not to mention he didn’t feel like going all the way back to the bathroom to change. However, he had never been able to resist provoking her. “It was only half a hand job.”  
  
Her mouth fell open. She looked like McGonagall with very bad hair turned into a fish. Very unpleasant, all things considered.  
  
“That was not,” she hissed, “half of anything.”  
  
“Oh, it was at least an eighth of one,” he conceded, whilst charming the wrinkles out of his shirt. “You might wish to show a little—”  
  
“Speaking of a little showing.”   
  
Merlin, she was actually smiling at him, the glint in her eyes positively evil. Draco scooped up his clothes, stepping around her.  
  
“I understand you probably don’t have anything to compare it to,” he said. “I’ll forgive you your ignorance this time.”  
  
“I have _plenty_ to compare it to,” she replied, crossing her arms.  
  
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Did you buy a book?”  
  
Granger harrumphed at that, lifting a finger to wag at him. Staring her down, he pretended to be about to drop trousers. She spun around, as predicted, and he dressed with only her back facing him.   
  
“Do you have a plan?” she demanded, clearly determined to change the subject.  
  
Draco glared at the back of her lopsided bun. “Yes. Don’t wind up alone with my father. He really detests you.”  
  
“I assure you the feeling is mutual. And that’s commonsense, not a plan. There’s a subtle difference between the two. Shall I tell you?”  
  
She did, because she was who she was. However, he was who he was as well, and he tuned her out without effort. Looking at himself in the mirror always calmed him down. Now, he checked to make sure he was wrinkle free and perfect, which he was. In fact, he even looked well rested. He gave his image a bracing smile; it looked rather like a grimace. Then, turning, he caught Granger by the arm and said, “Let’s go.”  
  
He hadn’t thought her particularly nervous, but the walk through the Manor changed his mind. The _silence_ of the walk proved it unequivocally. Granger, brave little fool, was all Gryffindor, marching a few steps ahead of him with her head held high. It made him want to scoff at her, but the thought of his father’s… well, truthfully Draco wasn’t sure what would be done. They would be in hot water with the Greengrass family and Granger was still her very impure self. Still, this was a changing world, wasn’t it, and Draco belatedly wasn’t a complete idiot all of the time.   
  
It was something that had occurred to him once it was too late, the notion that his father might not jump first to murder. The Malfoy family was poised on a precipice, which was clear. They had perhaps committed one wrong too many for society’s taste. Truthfully, Draco wasn’t sure how his father thought they might recover.   
  
In light of that, he wasn’t sure which his father might value more, the survival of the reputation of an old name or old views on blood. It was painfully obvious now that it was too late to change anything that, short of marrying bloody Potter himself, Hermione Granger was gold. It had occurred to him much too belatedly that Lucius Malfoy just might make the marriage stand, now that the act had already been committed.  
  
It was a horrible thought. Draco scowled at her back just to verify it. There was not one thing about her that was appealing, that was sensual. The line would dry up immediately. He watched her walk, all brisk and business-like, and thought there was nothing fluid about her at all. She was direct and to-the-point, almost masculine in mannerism. He liked his women slow and easy; Granger likely hadn’t slowed down one day in the whole of her life. She needed a proper shag, that much was glaringly apparent, but he couldn’t for one minute actually imagine her lowering herself to the level of a normal human. She was a force onto herself. She was Hermione fucking Granger.  
  
Why oh why had he stayed at that bloody inn?  
  
He’d forgotten that she didn’t know where she was going until she ploughed right by his mother’s tea room. Jogging two steps, he caught her arm and gestured with his head at the door.  
  
“They’ll be in here,” he whispered, lest they be listening.  
  
Granger’s chin raised a fraction. After a beat, she nodded. “I hope they skin you alive,” she said, sounding very sincere.  
  
Draco snickered before he could stop himself. Holding out his hand, he waited until her fingers folded around his. It was odd to hold her hand, odd to tie himself to her in any way. Her fingers felt small and fragile, which was not how he would ever have described her. Her grip, however, was bracing and firm. Shaking his head, he knocked on the door before twisting the knob and entering.  
  
“You should kiss me,” he hissed at the last moment. “I suspect you’ve been dying to since yesterday. This could be your last chance.”  
  
His whispered statement had the direct result of making the first thing his parents saw be Granger, gawking up at him in disgusted confusion. She was no slouch, though, his not-really-wife. As he looked down at her, her lips stretched and she smiled. Then, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. If he didn’t know her so well, he almost would have bought it.  
  
Trying to ignore the lingering scent of what couldn’t possibly be _perfume_ , he tucked Granger close and smiled as best he could at his parents. Lucius was up and pacing, never a good sign; Narcissa was seated in her favourite chair, the abject bewilderment on her face so exaggerated that she looked almost like a caricature. Draco most certainly did not gulp. Instead, he led Granger to a chaise, trying not to watch his father’s impatience.  
  
“Mother, Father, I’m sure you remember Hermione Granger,” he made himself say. Did one introduce her now as Hermione Malfoy? Ugh, it bothered him to even think it. Why had he even bothered to introduce her? Their shared history felt like a palpable thing, like a heavy object too awful to ignore. His father sent them both a sharp look over his shoulder before pacing to the window. His mother nodded at Granger, still looking rather confused.   
  
“Did you have a pleasant trip?” asked Granger, voice remarkably steady. In fact, he thought she might be enjoying this a little, the thick blanket of awkwardness smothering them all. His father’s tension was practically a living thing.  
  
“Yes. Thank you,” managed Narcissa, looking to her husband.   
  
“I don’t believe Draco mentioned where you were?”  
  
That was one question too far. Lucius stopped pacing and rounded on them. A normal father might have yelled, but not Lucius Malfoy. His tone dripped ice. His tone dripped scorn.  
  
“It seems my son forgot to mention a great many things,” he said.  
  
Granger’s smile was back to being evil. Draco imagined her chirpy fake little tone and _tell me, but did you enjoy house arrest_ and died on the inside. He squeezed her hand and, before she could say anything, blurted out, “I couldn’t marry Astoria.”  
  
Lucius made a noise of consideration, which was dangerous given Draco’s earlier thoughts. Walking to the desk, he lifted the paper and offered it to his son. “A fact I’m sure she’s aware of,” noted the elder Malfoy dryly.  
  
Granger, catching a glimpse of herself in Draco’s arms, couldn’t quite stop her grimace. Draco was better. Regarding his father levelly still terrifed the absolute piss out of him, but he was not sixteen any longer.   
  
“I am sorry for the way it all played out,” he admitted. In fact, he was sorrier than any of them could know. “However, I like… love… Grang—Hermione, and there is no one else I’d rather have for a wife.”  
  
The silence following that little proclamation was absolute. His mother made a noise that clearly wanted to resemble a swoon but came out more like a panicked squeak; Lucius was watching him without even so much as a blink. Granger, the witch, tittered. Draco, being somewhat of a coward, chose to look at her. Her cheeks had gone pink and her lips were twitching; he pinched the back of her hand as subtly as he could. The clock on the mantel ticked thunderously on.  
  
But Narcissa was diplomatic. In fact, it took her a mere forty five seconds to recover—Draco was counting. Folding her hands in her lap, she smiled tightly and said, “At least she was in the folder. Isn’t that right, Lucius?”  
  
Lucius inclined his head sharply and Draco felt the tiniest burst of panic. Why hadn’t he looked at that folder more in depth? Why on earth would his parents have included her if not… if not… if not for exactly what he had feared earlier, which was preserving their name by using hers, and dash all bloodlines? He felt somewhat hoodwinked without quite knowing why and… _trapped_ , so very trapped.  
  
“She was?!” he demanded at the same moment Granger herself perked up and said, “What folder?”  
  
“Mother’s bride folder.” It was humiliating to say.  
  
She blinked. “I was an option?” Draco hadn’t been expecting it, but she looked perfectly torn between disgusted and… complimented. She actually smiled at him. “I bet I was near the front, wasn’t I?”  
  
“You were option forty seven,” interjected Narcissa, smile somewhat catty.  
  
Granger’s face fell, which gave Draco his first real moment of enjoyment. Squeezing her hand comfortingly, he said, “Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure you were the best of the worst.”  
  
“Oh quite,” drawled his mother, looking lazily around the room. “She was the first of… err… the first not of old money.”  
  
“Money is very important to us,” deadpanned Draco.  
  
“No, darling,” cooed Granger, batting her eyes coquettishly. He felt tiny bursts of alarm deep in his belly. “ _Love_ is important to us.”  
  
That said, she cuddled in as close as she could. Draco wanted to strangle her. Instead, he forced himself to put his arm around her shoulders, drumming his fingers on her upper arm. Across the room, Lucius looked like he might be ill; Narcissa’s smile was still so fake and wide Draco thought it a miracle her face didn’t crack.  
  
“You might have told us,” she sniffed, “instead of running off like that. You know how much that meant to me.”  
  
“It was rather sudden,” muttered Draco, trying to ignore a whole fresh wave of guilt. He’d only been married for a few days and he swore this was the worst he’d ever felt. "I am sorry, Mother."  
  
“Clever of you, however, to announce it to the press beforehand,” continued his mother, her tone adding _since you chose number forty seven._ “Bit stickier to get out of now, isn’t it?”   
  
She laughed and so he did too. After a moment, even his father chuckled. Granger looked bewildered and moved to escape Draco’s arms. He didn’t allow it, instead tightening his grip and dropping his other hand to her thigh. Best to escape alive, and all that.   
  
“Well, Mother and Father, I’m sorry you had to find out this way but I just had to have her. Only the best for me.” Or the forty seventh. “Mind if I steal my bride away?”  
  
He made his smile as lovey-dovey as he could. To his horror, after a moment, his mother’s smile softened. She stood and Draco hauled Granger to her feet as well. Narcissa moved to them both, squeezing Granger’s hand briefly before leaning in to kiss Draco on the cheek.  
  
“If this makes you happy,” she whispered, low enough for only him to hear, “then I am happy for you, son.”  
  
Guilt, oh the guilt! Resisting the urge to fold under the shittiness that was how he felt, he gave his mother a hug. If only she could fix it, if only she could—  
  
“I’d like a word, if you don’t mind, with my son.”  
  
 _Fuck_. Granger’s eyes lit up with wicked glee, but his mother only winked at him.   
  
“We’ll talk later,” she said, before motioning that Granger follow her. “Come, Hermione. I wish to hear all about your wedding since some sons are too ungrateful to remember to invite their own mothers.”  
  
Draco watched them go with a sense of longing greater than he’d ever known. He wanted to cling to Granger's surprisingly acceptable robes and beg her not to leave him alone, despite how wretchedly smug her smile looked.   
  
Once the door had clicked shut and Draco's last chance of escape had faded to a distant memory, Lucius bid he sit. This was not hard to do, as Draco’s knees were practically knocking. Pacing in front of his son, Lucius looked down his nose, thin lips turned up in a wicked sneer. Oh, his father had always done evil so well.  
  
“Say it,” said Lucius.  
  
“Say what?” asked Draco, genuinely thrown.  
  
Lucius walked to the window, shoes clicking on the hardwood. “Say you need my help,” he drawled. “Say you need this ended. Tell me the truth.”  
  
It was so unbelievably tempting that Draco found his mouth actually opening. Still, his father had never been the most trustworthy type and he knew to proceed with caution. Heart hammering in his chest, Draco cleared his throat.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There. That sounded almost… _level._  
  
Lucius’ sneer only stretched. In fact, it was bordering on a smirk, which Draco found rather inappropriate given everything.   
  
“Have you considered what you’ve done, Draco? Have you considered whom you’re married to? When I left you at that godforsaken little inn, I left you with choices. You hated the idea of marriage, yes, but I’d narrowed it down to brides we could _buy_ , brides who would have left you alone for very little, brides like Astoria. Have you considered the cost of Hermione Granger?”  
  
No, he wanted to snark, no he hadn’t. He had considered that she was supposed to be _dying_ and he’d needed a way out. Take that, Father.  
  
“I love her,” he said instead.  
  
At that, Lucius actually laughed. “Oh, I doubt that.”  
  
“Why,” pondered Draco, not really wishing to press his luck, “aren’t you angrier?”  
  
The look on his father’s face turned somber. Regarding his son quite levelly, he said, “I’ve made mistakes, Draco, and I’ve had a lot of time to consider a few key things. The survival of our name is what matters, even if the means to that end do not appeal to me. Happily, all that really matters is that the means to that end appeal to you, which it seems they do.”  
  
Unlikely. Grimacing, Draco looked down at his lap. It made him uncomfortable to hear his father say such things—in truth, his father in general made him uncomfortable—and he desperately wanted this interlude to be over. _Save me, Father_ , he wanted to say, like he was young and marriage was Quidditch.   
  
“Also,” continued Lucius, “your marriage pleases your mother. You mightn’t know it, but there was not one bride in that folder she didn’t approve of. I daresay she’s quite happy with this, if surprised.”  
  
“Oh.” Because what else was there to say? Why hadn’t he read that damned folder? There had to be plenty of dying witches _not_ in it.  
  
His father’s shoes clicked in his direction, pausing right in his line of sight. Forcing down a gulp, Draco glanced up. Lucius’ face was deathly serious.  
  
“Do you understand me? This makes your mother happy.”  
  
“Yes, I understand.” Because he could _hear_.  
  
“Your mother deserves to be happy.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
With that, Lucius dropped to a squat in front of his son, staring Draco hard in the eye.  
  
“You’re up to something. You probably think you have a way out of this. But know this, boy, I will thwart you at every turn. Marriage is forever. Marriage is for life. If this makes your mother happy, I am happy. You are happy. I will not see your mother unhappy for one more day of her life.” Rising, he stared down at Draco, maneuvering eyes cold as ice. “Tell me again: have you considered the cost of Hermione Granger?”


	6. Problems, Together

_“Marriage is an attempt to solve problems together, which you didn’t even have when you were on your own.”_

_—Eddie Cantor_

 

 

Awkward, that was the only word for it.  Oh, perhaps there were more words... excruciating, nerve-wracking,  _ridiculous_ , but here Hermione was, and her normal thesaurus of a brain was failing her.  All she could truly focus on was this woman, this veritable pillar of all things icy, peering at her with abject suspicion over the rim of her teacup.  And, Merlin, the  _lies_  Hermione was telling her!

 

"My illness spurred him into action," she was saying, trying to keep her tone just oh-so-full-of-pain and devoid of any of the anger that still stirred her stomach.  "I confess, I was rather out of it.  I scarcely recall the actual ceremony!  Not how a girl dreams of her wedding day precisely, was it?” She tried to sound regretful, which honestly was not too difficult given her circumstances.

 

Narcissa Malfoy hmm'd into her teacup.  She was a fortress unto herself, this woman, with her flawless alabaster skin and perfectly coifed hair.  Her robes, Hermione guessed, were likely worth more than Hermione made in a month.   The Malfoy matriarch was still and composed, so very _just so_ that Hermione was having trouble looking at her, not that she was in a hurry to admit that. 

 

After a moment, Narcissa picked up a plate of baked goods and offered it to Hermione.  The rings on her fingers winked in the morning sunlight.

 

"To put it lightly,” she said, tone suggesting that she might have put it a different way entirely.   Hermione struggled to remember this woman’s actions at the end of the war, anything to make her remotely less terrifying.   “And without a proper dress!  Would you care for a scone, darling?"

 

The thought of eating was off-putting.  Hermione wondered how far into death-by-Lucius her errant-- _ugh_ \--husband was.  Was she already a widow?  The thought tinged her smile genuine.

 

"No, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.  We were very nervous about telling you!  I fear it has quite chased away my appetite."  

 

That, to be certain, was almost the truth.  Of course, there was also the memory of this morning, with Malfoy's... with  _Malfoy_  under her palm, ready and at least physically willing.  Her hand felt twitchy.  She was never going to be able to unfeel that, and here she was, thinking about it in front of his  _mother_ , who seemed to have forgotten how to talk.  Narcissa Malfoy was clearly waiting Hermione out, taking stock of and reading the situation.  The younger woman felt on edge.  It wasn’t quite fair that she should be the one to spin this tale, when she’d had very little to do with creating it. 

 

"You can relax, you know."  The corner of Narcissa's lip tilted upwards, but it was not quite a smile.   “You needn't have any worries about your treatment or anything of the sort.  Lucius and I spent the morning making the Manor safe for you, so you needn’t worry.  There is nowhere you can’t go.  I know your history in our home is not... well, I think you will find our family quite practical, my dear."

 

_Quite practical_.  Hermione supposed that was as close as an apology as she was ever going to get.  Narcissa looked seconds away from  _tut-tutting_  away their ugly past, dismissing it as no more than those-were-different-times.  Still, Hermione felt that even those words must have been hard for the Malfoy matriarch.  Her fingers were clenched a tad too tightly around her teacup, the first genuine sign of emotion the woman had shown thus far. 

 

"If that is the real reason you and my son chose not to wait for us, I suppose I can understand it.  Now that you're wed, perhaps we can put it behind us, over time.  I am well aware these wounds don't heal over night."

 

Hermione clenched her own teacup.  She had no idea what to say, but she felt strangely guilty.  Narcissa seemed sincere, in her own way, and Hermione could only imagine how she would feel about all of this when she found out it was nothing more than deception, that Hermione was after nothing more than Malfoy's money.  Not that Hermione particularly cared how Narcissa felt given everything, and yet still.  There was hope beyond the resignation on her mother-in-law’s face, even if Hermione couldn’t guess what that hope was for.  She had no idea what to say to her halfway apology.

 

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."  There, that was something.

 

Narcissa inclined her chin, before sending Hermione a wink.  "I suspected, you know.  That was why I included you in the bride folder."

 

Hermione very nearly choked on her tea.  "Beg pardon?"

 

"Draco used to complain about you constantly.  A little  _too_  constantly, if you ask me."

 

Hermione didn't think it was possible for either of them to complain too much about the other, not one bit.  In fact, she was going to complain much more from here on out.  It was ridiculous to presume that someone who took advantage of someone else's apparent state of nearly dead might harbour any sort of adolescent crush.  It took everything in Hermione not to start complaining, right this instant.  Only that seemed to fall in the family of tattling, and she was not, by nature, a snitch.

 

"It took us awhile longer to see it ourselves," she forced herself to admit.  Her mouth felt strange from all of her fake smiles.

 

A moment of silence settled over them.  Hermione debated changing her mind on the scone, which did indeed look delicious.  What on earth was taking Malfoy so long?  Was his father torturing him before killing him?  Delightful thought.

 

"Have you any questions?" asked Narcissa.  "I remember marrying into this family myself.  It can be a tad overwhelming."

 

Indeed!  Which reminded her…

 

"Actually, Draco showed me the most alarming book.  It was positively... well, it was something.  You don't honestly--"

 

"Oh, that old thing.  Lucius tried to show me that book as well.  I ought to have had it destroyed, but you'll find we are big on preserving our history, and it is an artifact, isn’t it?  Malfoy men like to talk a big game, my dear, but we all know who's boss, don't we?"  Then, on a grimace just this side of insulting, "Tell me, how many robes like these do you own?  I might have to send a few owls."

 

**

 

Unfortunately for all, Draco Malfoy was very much alive.  

 

Stomping through the Manor towards his suite--his  _bridal_  suite, and excuse him whilst he vomited--he tried to quash the growing panic in his gut.  After an extensive lecture/discussion with his father, the terrible truth was nearly impossible to ignore: Lucius Malfoy, despite what any one might have presumed, was going to thwart Draco at every turn and make sure this marriage stood.  It was unfathomable.  Draco was seconds away from breaking out in a cold sweat.  The thought of  _staying_  with goody-two-shoes Granger was too much.  She had nearly died at the merest brush of the Malfoy family jewels--and pity she hadn't; he could not for one second image actually _bedding_  her.  

 

_Oh heavens!  That goes_ where _?!_

 

No.  It was not to be born.  The Malfoy line was going to have to die out.   What sort of forced marriage was this to be?  A bloody awful one!

 

And ridiculous anyway, this whole internal tangent.  He wasn't even sure why he was thinking of consummating this at all, disgusting thought.  He had bigger fish to fry.  He needed to find a way out before his brain imploded.  He knew the old cliché about anything worth having being work; Draco Malfoy, occasional _very_ hard worker, desperately wanted his freedom.  Glowering, he all but kicked open the doors to their suite.

 

Hermione was sitting at the table, a glower on her face as well.  She was surrounded by stacks of paper, which he presumed was her waste of time house elf research.  The thought that he was funding it set his teeth further on edge.  

 

"You're looking well," she greeted, sounding terribly disappointed.

 

He threw a sneer in her direction.  "Don't sound so happy about it, wife.  How was my mother?  I haven't had that pleasure yet."

 

"I'm to be fitted with a new wardrobe."  Never had he heard a woman sound less excited about this prospect.  “I was informed there was ‘no need to look like number forty seven, now is there?’   _Honestly_.”

 

Here, Draco had to agree with his mother.  She looked well enough today, though he would never admit it out loud.  He, however, had been through her closet and knew the rest of her robes ran along the lines of McGonagall, prim and stuffy.  No one would believe that Draco Malfoy would fancy  _that_ , except perhaps Sarah, whom he'd convinced once or twice to play disapproving professor.  He wondered what Hermione's view was on mistresses, in the instances of arranged marriages.  Not that it mattered, as his was a sham.  He made himself stare at her hair until he had stopped thinking about shagging, full stop.  The woman needed someone to tend to that rat’s nest too. 

 

"Long overdue, if you ask me."  

 

“Good thing no one asked you, isn’t it?”

 

Turning his back to her, he went to the closet.  Her things were everywhere, even though she had her very own closet adjacent to his.  Irritation flared.  

 

"Have you seen my black cloak?"

 

Hermione chortled.  "Are we going to play this game now?  Where I have to get up and find something directly in front of your nose?  I'm not your actual wife, you git."

 

Locating it all on his own, he donned it and levelled her with a glare.  Might as well shock her with the truth, he supposed.

 

"My father wants this marriage to stand."   It sounded even worse out loud.

 

He was rewarded by her quick intake of breath.  Then, she waved her hand dismissively.  "No matter, Malfoy.  This changes nothing.  He can’t force me not to divorce you."

 

“Annul,” he all but growled.  “Malfoys simply do not divorce.”

 

Hermione, in response, merely rolled her eyes.

 

It felt like Hogwarts all over again, and Draco Malfoy had never been good at choosing things over his father's approval.  He did not want this, not at all, but, Merlin, Lucius Malfoy was going to be so disappointed.  He was going to be disowned.  He was going to live on the streets, or at least in a hovel like the Burrow.  Perhaps Weasley would throw him scraps from time to time.  Draco clutched his very expensive cloak protectively.  

 

"I'm going out on my broom," he informed her, pausing to check his cloak in the mirror.  Even the glorious sight that was he didn’t cheer him up.  Things were indeed quite dire.

 

"Draco, darling, I think you're meant to spend time with me.  What would your parents think?"

 

She was having too much fun with this.  Merlin, he could not stand her.  Turning, he stalked away from her, although he could feel her eyes on his back.  His skin was crawling.

 

"Oh, and Malfoy!"  The laughter in her voice did not bode well.  "Could you please see about transferring me some funds?  I need some supplies."

 

He let his answer be the slam of their door.  

 

**

 

Draco rode for hours.  He rode until his broom was listing dangerously; until his hands felt the beginnings of blisters.  He rode like the wind, hellbent on out flying all of his problems.  Impossible to do, of course, and he was well aware of  _that_  after basically the whole of his life, thanks ever so.

 

The Manor was dark when he entered, which was a relief.  The genuine flicker of interest on his mother’s face at his… announcement swamped him with guilt, and he wasn’t quite fully prepared to deal with  _that_.  Letting down Lucius was one thing, but letting down Narcissa had always been particularly painful.  He was used to disappointing his father, but his mother was his unflagging champion.  Disappointed was going to put it mildly.  What sort of miserable excuse for a man married a dying woman specifically  _because_  she was dying?  He hadn’t felt great about it exactly, but, oh, Narcissa was going to be devastated by that little tidbit.   How  _low_.  

  
  
It was a shame he hadn’t fallen from his broom, really.  He would be much better at dying than his wife.  Then again, he was better than at her at most things, wasn’t he?  Yes, he was.

  
  
His bloody buggering bridal suite was dark as well.  Muttering a quick  _lumos_ , he observed Hermione’s notes, neatly stacked now that she wasn’t working on them.  Curiosity killed the cat, so he took a quick peek, rolling his eyes in distaste at her neatly scrawled  _House Elves and Mourning: Notes and Observations_.  Dull!  It stood to reason that Granger had bored herself to sleep. 

  
  
Sighing, Draco took his time readying himself for bed.  He was loathe to find her there.  Something about honest to Merlin sleeping with someone sat wrong, especially when that someone was his Gryffindor bride.  He dimmed his wand with a quiet whisper.  The last thing he wanted to do was wake the dragon.

  
  
Said dragon was curled on her side, clad in pajamas as ridiculous as the night prior.  Were those unicorns marching across pale pink fabric?  He rather thought they were.  Her mouth was open slightly, though she was not snoring—praise Merlin for small miracles—and her hair, that entity onto itself, was fanned across her pillow.  She looked different asleep, he realized, softer and younger too without her biting tone and ready glare.  Then, Draco noticed the mound of pillows stacked between their respective sleeping spots and laughed before he could stop himself.

  
  
Hermione came awake on an  _mmph_ , scrunching her brow and turning her face in his direction.  Something stirred in Draco’s stomach, something not unlike awareness.  He was surprised—no, definitely,  _definitely_ disgusted—to realize that she was, well, pretty.  He very nearly smiled at her, but then recognition flitted across her features and her face shuttered.

 

“You missed dinner,” she accused, rubbing an eye.  “I was starting to think you’d tragically plummeted from your broom.”

  
  
“Have you spent all day waiting for my death?  It’s a little morbid, isn’t it?”

  
  
The tower of pillows made it nearly impossible to get comfortable.  She had left him approximately two inches of mattress.  Glowering at the tower between them, he laid on his back and clenched his eyes shut.  Good night, world, and all the problems therein.

  
  
Only the chief problem wasn’t done talking.

  
  
“Says the man who married a dying woman and, come to think, has not yet adequately apologized.”

  
  
“Oh come off it, Granger.  This is the best thing that’s happened to you in ages.  Just how many new robes is Mother ordering you?  Milking it a bit, don’t you think?”

  
  
“Oh yes, speaking of  _Mother_ , did you know that Malfoy brides are to eat with the family on every occasion that the family happens to be together?  Thanks ever so for leaving me alone with your parents, you slippery sod.  Why, I ought to—”

  
  
“What is  _with_  these pillows?!”  Annoyed, he shoved at the nearest one, pushing it oh-so-accidentally into Granger’s face.  

  
  
She pushed it right back, replying primly, “I’m trying to avoid a repeat of this morning.  You tried to  _cuddle_ me, Malfoy.”

  
  
“Oh and let’s not forget what you tried to do to me!  You’d think someone as liberal as you claim to be would be big on this little concept of consent.  Only no.  I had to wake up with your hand pressed right up against my c—”

  
  
_Whap_.  Pillow flooded his mouth, Granger having decided to use her wall of defense for more offensive purposes.  Spluttering, he shoved at it, annoyed to find that she was  _pushing_  on it, just a little.  The crazy bint was set to smother him!  Squirming, he was reduced to using both his leg and his arm to muscle her off.

 

Huffing for air, Draco said, “Do be realistic.  I do _not_ cuddle.”

 

Granger looked like she had something to say, opening and closing her mouth like a fish.  She had the pillow clutched to her chest.  He watched both her and her instrument of death warily.  Then, something strange happened, something entirely unexpected.  Granger burst into uncontrollable giggles.

 

The woman was off her bird.  Gawking at her, Draco watched her clutch her sides, watched her eyes flood with tears.  Her laughter, hysterical though it was, transformed her face almost as much as sleeping. 

 

“What’s funny?”  Despite his resolve not to join her, he felt his lips tug upwards. 

 

“This—this—oh _Merlin_ , this hurts!”  She gulped for air, trying to steady herself.  With her hand pressed to her chest, she added, “This whole thing!  I can’t believe I’m at Malfoy Manor after dining with Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, and now I’m about to sleep with my bloody _husband_ , none other than Draco Malfoy!  This is like some sort of horrid dream!”

 

“Say Malfoy one more time, my dear,” he grumbled, though he did not disagree.  “It is surreal.”

 

Obviously not used to his agreement, Granger exhaled before falling back onto her back, pillow clutched tightly.  At least it blocked most of his view of her pajamas. 

 

“You may remove the tower,” she said, as loftily as if she was a queen giving him the most important honour in the land, “but you may not touch me.  And I get to keep this one pillow, just in case.”

 

“I assure you that won’t be a problem.”

 

Silence filled the bedroom, save for the odd rustling of blankets as Granger made herself comfortable.  Draco blinked up at the ceiling, waiting for her breathing to even out.  Something about falling asleep first rankled.  Then, because he was a contrary sort of person, once that happened, he decided once again to speak.

 

“I am sorry about dinner with my parents.  I imagine that wasn’t pleasant.”  A pause.  “Sorry strictly for _their_ sake, you understand.”

 

Granger huffed her irritation at being pulled from near-sleep, loudly crossing her arms.  It was too dark to see her glare, but he felt it all the same.

 

“Do you _always_ talk this much?” she half growled, rubbing at her eyes.  “I’ve had a very long and trying day being very nice to your parents.  I’d like to go to sleep now, if I may.”

 

“You may not.”  Rolling onto his side to face her, he could just make out her horrid pajamas.  Their knees brushed in this new position, but he steadfastly refused to be the first to move.  “I have decided I am not tired.”

 

“Goodness, Malfoy!  I fail to see how this concerns me.”

 

“Of course it concerns you.  As you have so lastingly ensured, you are my wife.  Every aspect of me concerns you.”  He managed to make his smile lewd, hoping she could make it out in the dark.  “You ought to feel lucky.”

 

“Three months is _hardly_ lasting.  Don’t be such a baby.”   She moved her knee.

 

Ignoring her, he pressed on.  “What’s next, then?  As pleasant as hiding in the Manor has been, you are hardly keeping up your end of the bargain, are you?  If no one _sees_ us, no one will believe I’m heartbroken.  Not that anyone will believe it anyway because… well… you’re you.”

 

Granger hmph’d, shifting her weight and bringing back her knee.  “I’ve been thinking of precisely that!  You needn’t worry, Malfoy.  I would never renege on my end of a bargain.  It’s patently obvious we’re going to have to make a few public appearances.  It’s only logical.”

 

“I have lunch every Thursday afternoon with Pansy.”

 

“Oh, hold on just a moment!  Part of our agreement was—”

 

“No time spent with each other’s mates, yes, yes.  However, wouldn’t it be even better if everyone thought everyone else was accepting of this mess?”

 

He could practically _hear_ her thinking.  A crinkle appeared between her brows; had she always had that?  Out of nowhere, he had the ludicrous urge to smooth it away.  Disgusting thought!  He made himself stare at the unicorns on her arm until he felt more himself.

 

“I suppose you have a point.”  It sounded like admitting it killed her, which he rather liked.  “But on one condition.”

 

“Is nothing ever easy with you?  Fine.”

 

“I get to bring someone too.”  She smiled, which he did not rather like.  “Someone of my choosing.”

 

“No.  Expecting me to dine with—”

 

“The deal is off then!  You’ll just have to figure out a way to be suitably heartbroken without the whole world seeing our very epic love affair, won’t you.  Shame.  Such a story for the ages!”

 

Merlin, he hated her.  “ _Fine_.  But don’t expect me to talk to them or like them or anything of the sort.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Silence reigned.  Sleep, however, remained elusive, though not for Granger.  It was purely coincidence that he decided to grab onto her arm at the exact moment her breathing slowed, coincidence and nothing more, of course.

 

“Honestly, Malfoy!” she groaned, yanking at her arm when she found it trapped in his hand.  “Why are you touching me?”

 

Draco made a big show of staring at her pajamas, tightening his grip when she wiggled. 

 

“I just wanted to verify that these are indeed unicorns, and they are.  Is that what you always sleep in?”  When she refused to answer, he added, “Tell me, Granger, are you a virgin?”

 

Granger yanked her arm back with meaning, rolling away from him on a huff. 

 

“I’m wearing these specifically for you, you dolt.  I don’t want you to get any ideas.  Now kindly do shut up, and let me sleep!”

 

Only Draco was very far away from ideas, or at least ideas involving his Muggle born bride.  Sighing to himself, he thought about other standing arrangements.  Thursday was lunch with Pansy, but he generally amused himself when possible with Sarah, his lady of the hour.  Mournfully, he thought of his stash of photographs, hidden away in his proper bedroom.  She was a most giving witch; over the last few months of their arrangement, he’d established quite a collection.  Of course, after Sarah, there was also Opal, who was not without talents of her own. 

 

Curiously, though he suspected he knew the answer, he inquired, “Granger, given that our marriage is, at best, a sham, what precisely is your stance on mistresses?”

 

The only answer he received was her pillow, once again coming into violent contact with his face and drowning out his most excellent a-man-his-needs-argument.

 

“For the absolute last time, Malfoy, go to sleep!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
